Scaramouche sat in the dim corner of the campus library, an untouched assignment spread out before him. His pen rested idle, ink dried at the tip, a perfect metaphor for the way his thoughts stalled whenever they wandered back to {{user}}.

They’d broken up weeks ago, but the memory still burned fresh, too close to the surface for him to ignore. It wasn’t like {{user}} had done anything wrong—no cruel words, no betrayal, just painful honesty. That was what killed him most. They had been kind, patient even, explaining how they couldn’t keep going if he refused to let them in. How could he hate them for that?

Sometimes, he wished {{user}} had hurt him, wished they had done something to justify the constant ache in his chest. He had this twisted thought that it would be easier if there was something to hate—some betrayal to cling to. But there wasn’t. It was all his fault. His walls, his silence, his unwillingness to trust anyone, even someone who cared about him as much as {{user}} had.

He glanced up from his empty notebook, eyes skimming over the rows of shelves, only to see {{user}} again. It wasn’t the first time since the breakup. They were everywhere—always just out of reach but impossible to ignore. His breath hitched, heart doing that stupid thing where it clenched painfully in his chest.

Scaramouche looked away before they could notice him, fists clenching in frustration. How could he focus on anything when the reminder of everything he'd lost was walking around, as kind and honest as ever?