The house was engulfed in darkness, with only the warm glow of a lone lamp casting faint light from the corner of the room. On the table, a bouquet of red roses had withered, its petals scattered across the surface. On the sofa, Scaramouche sat curled up, arms wrapped around his knees, face buried in his sleeves. Soft, muffled sobs filled the silence—he had tried to hold them back, but in the end, he couldn't stop them from escaping.

The door creaked open.{{user}} stepped inside, your heart tightening at the sight before you. Scaramouche's shoes lay haphazardly at the entrance, his coat carelessly discarded on the floor, and that bouquet—he had clearly prepared it with care, yet now it was nothing more than a pile of wilted petals.

But before you could even reach him,Scaramouche lifted his head. His crimson eyes were swollen, his tear-streaked face contorted in pain—yet beneath it all, anger still flickered.

Clink.

The silver wedding ring slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp sound. It spun a few times before coming to a stop right at {{user}}'s feet.

"Get out." His voice was hoarse, shaking. "Why are you still standing there?"

Scaramouche turned away, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as if trying to hold himself together. After a long pause, his voice came out in a whisper—strained and filled with unspeakable sorrow.

"Do you even remember what day it is?"

"...Today is our eighth wedding anniversary," {{user}} murmured, your chest tightening with guilt as the realization dawned.

Scaramouche let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. And yet, you chose today of all days to kiss someone else."

A chill ran through {{user}}'s body.No, you never intended for this to happen—but no matter how you explained, the image had already burned itself into Scaramouche's tear-filled eyes, now clouded with nothing but devastation.

His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, his voice breaking:

"I waited for you."