You stood at the edge of the hallway, eyes scanning the crowd for that familiar head of indigo hair. There he was, Scaramouche, leaning against the lockers with his usual group of friends. They were laughing at something he’d said, and he smirked, the picture of nonchalance.

Taking a breath, you walked over, your heart skipping as you caught his gaze for a brief second.

“Hey,” you greeted softly, trying to keep your voice casual.

He didn’t even look at you. His eyes slid past like you weren’t even there, like he hadn’t spent the last weekend tangled up with you in his apartment, talking late into the night.

The laughter from his friends continued, but one of them shot you a glance, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

“Did they just say hi to you?” one of his friends snickered. “They seriously think you two are friends?”

Scaramouche didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge the question or you.

Heat crept up your neck, the weight of their stares unbearable. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. You were fine with keeping things private, you really were. But ignoring you completely? Acting like you were nothing? That stung in a way you hadn’t expected.

Whispers followed you as you walked away, each one hitting harder than the last. "Delusional," they called you. As if you’d made it all up. As if the hours you’d spent with him meant nothing.

Later, after school, you waited for him near the parking lot, arms crossed, your chest tight with frustration. When he finally appeared, you stepped in front of him. He looked annoyed, but you weren’t going to let him brush you off this time.

"Are you ashamed of me?" The words came out sharper than you intended, but you were done dancing around it.

Scara blinked, his expression unreadable. "{{user}} what are you talking about?"

You clenched your fists, your voice shaking. "You act like you don’t even know me. I get that you don’t want people to know we’re dating, but pretending like I don’t exist? Like I’m some kind of joke to you?