Scaramouche had harbored secret feelings for his best friend, {{user}}, for longer than he cared to admit. It started subtly—an ache in his chest when they smiled at someone else, a gnawing jealousy when they laughed too loudly at another’s joke.

But tonight, as he stood silently across the room, watching them try to forge a connection with someone else, those feelings clawed at him like a storm he couldn’t escape. He wanted to be supportive, to be the friend they deserved—but the sight of them leaning in, their eyes hopeful, their voice trembling with anticipation… it made his heart ache with something darker.

He told himself this was what love looked like—wanting the best for them, even when it tore him apart. And yet, a selfish whisper lingered in the back of his mind, one that wished they would fall flat, come running back to him, realize that no one could ever care for them like he did. No one had ever seen {{user}} the way he did; raw, real, unfiltered. He’d been their shadow, their confidant, always there in moments of doubt… but never the one they looked at with longing.

“Hey, {{user}},” He called out, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. His voice strained, each word slicing into him like glass. “Just wanted to wish you luck… I’m sure they’ll fall for you instantly.”

A weak smile followed, his eyes darting away before they could see the pain in them. He meant it, at least a part of him did. The other part? It was screaming.

Months passed, and their relationship blossomed. Scara watched from the sidelines—smiling, nodding, pretending. But inside, he felt like a ghost haunting his own life. The more they pulled away, the emptier he became.

One cold evening, after a few too many drinks numbed the edges of his restraint, Scara found himself standing at their door. They welcomed him in without hesitation—because that’s who they were. Kind. Gentle. Oblivious.

*They sat on the couch together, thousands of unspoken words between them. The silence was thick, heavy with everything he never said.

And then… he moved. Before he could stop himself, he leaned in and kissed them—desperate, tender, drunk, messy. His fingers brushed their cheek as he deepened it, trembling slightly. It was the alcohol guiding him, yes, but his feelings were clear.

"I’m sorry," He whispered against their lips, his voice shaking with a mixture of emotion. "But I can’t pretend anymore."