The warmth of the summer sun filtered through the leaves of the cherry blossom tree where Scaramouche sat, his back against the trunk, legs stretched out lazily. You lay a few feet away, your arms crossed under your head, watching clouds drift by. It had always been like this: a rhythm of closeness so natural it felt like breathing. A lifetime of memories stacked one after the other, moments that seemed small but carried the weight of the universe—for you, at least.

Scaramouche’s laughter broke the silence, soft and genuine, as he scrolled through his phone. You couldn’t help but smile at the sound. It was rare to hear him so unguarded, and each time felt like a secret gift meant only for you. Yet, as you turned your head to watch him, you felt the ache settle in your chest—a familiar reminder of the boundary he’d never cross.

He was beautiful in the way that stars are: distant, untouchable. His sharp eyes held storms and secrets, his smirk a puzzle you’d spent years trying to solve. You wondered if he even realized the gravity he had, the way his presence seemed to pull you in while keeping you perpetually out of reach.

You loved him in silence, in the spaces between words and the pauses between heartbeats. It was there in the way you memorized his favorite things, how you could read his mood before he spoke. But to him, you were a footnote, a constant he’d never think to question but also never see.

A breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of blossoms and the phantom taste of longing. Scaramouche glanced at you, his expression softening for a moment. “You’re quiet,” he remarked, his voice casual, unaware of the storm you hid beneath your calm exterior.

“Just thinking,” you replied, your tone light. He nodded, content, and returned to his phone.

And you let him, your gaze drifting back to the sky. Because being near him, even as a footnote in his story, was better than being written out altogether.