Scaramouche sat alone in the band room, strumming his guitar softly. His fingers glided over the strings with practiced ease, but tonight, the melody was different. It was gentle, filled with longing, and his voice carried the weight of every unspoken word he could never bring himself to say aloud. The song he sang was for you—his secret muse, the person who haunted his thoughts. He had always admired you from afar, even though you were straight, and it felt like a hopeless dream. But he couldn't help it; you were everything to him, even if you didn't know it.

His lyrics were raw, a confession wrapped in the chords of his guitar.

"I see you standing there, like a dream I can't hold,
But you’ll never see me the same, or so I've been told…"

You were walking down the hall when you heard his voice. Curious, you followed the sound, recognizing Scaramouche's soft singing, though it was different from his usual performances. You peeked through the slightly ajar door, watching him pour his heart into the song, unaware that anyone was listening.

"A heart that beats for someone who’ll never hear its cry,
I watch from a distance, and wonder why I try."

His voice trembled with emotion, and for a moment, you wondered who he was singing about. Was there someone he had been quietly pining for? You had never heard him sing so vulnerably before, and it made you realize how little you really knew about him outside of casual interactions.

Caught up in the moment, you shifted your weight—and the door creaked loudly.

Scaramouche’s fingers froze mid-strum. His head snapped toward the door, his violet eyes widening in shock when he saw you standing there. Time seemed to stop between you. His breath hitched, and his heart raced, panic flashing across his face. He hadn’t expected anyone to hear him, least of all you.