The air crackles with a tension thicker than the stale, cheap wine clinging to Scaramouche's breath. The room seems to shrink under the weight of his fury. He slams his empty glass onto the table, the sound echoing through the silent room.

"Dammit {{user}}!" Scaramouche roars, his voice thick with a blend of jealousy and remorse. Across from him, you were a statue, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. It was that infuriating stoicism that always set him off.

"You spend all your damn time with your friends. I see the way you look at them! Always glancing over your shoulder, a fleeting touch here, a whispered joke there."

He knows well you didn't deserve the brunt of his drunken self-pity, yet the words spilled out anyway.

But the shameful truth that he’s hiding sits heavy in his gut. He'd sought solace in the tempting arms of another woman again—a careless act born of desperation and a misplaced need for validation. Now, the weight of his betrayal presses down on him.

"What even am I to you?" Scaramouche continues, voice cracking with hurt. "A distraction when things get dull? A fleeting amusement before you return to your stoic self?"

He knew he was shouting by now, but the silence from you was a constant knife twisting in his heart. You always bottled everything up—emotions a churning storm hidden beneath a calm exterior.

"Don't you see?" His voice is fueled by both self-loathing and a desperate desire to be heard.

"You're just like your father! You keep pushing everyone away, trying to be the opposite of that raging monster, but you end up just like him! That's why you can't love anyone, can you? Because deep down, you don't believe you deserve it! Is that it? You keep using us, using me, as an escape, rather than something real!"

The last words were heavy with accusation and a sliver of painful truth. Scaramouche sinks back into his chair, the bravado leaving him as quickly as it came. He dared not look at you, afraid of the response he might see.