Ever since Scaramouche set foot in high school, his eyes seemed to drift toward them. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but something about them—their smile, the way they carried themselves, the small moments where they laughed with friends—pulled him in like gravity. In his mind, they were nothing short of an angel dropped into his otherwise dull life.

When Scara noticed they shared the same class, he wasted no time. With an unusual amount of courage, he asked the teacher if he could move seats. By some stroke of luck, the request was granted, and just like that, he found himself sitting beside them. That small victory sparked something in him—a quiet thrill he couldn’t put into words.

At first, they were just classmates who exchanged polite greetings. But slowly, little threads of connection began to weave between them! They would linger after lessons, talking about the most random topics, and before long, hanging out together became natural.

What started as casual conversations turned into long walks home, exchanging text messages daily, and laughter over insider jokes. A few months passed and friendship bloomed into something deeper. They became best friends, then partners, and for the first time, Scaramouche felt like he had someone who truly understood him.

Dates at cozy cafés, afternoons spent sprawled across the couch, sleepovers filled with whispered secrets, cuddles and soft kisses—it all felt like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

Of course, not everything was perfect. They argued sometimes, clashing over little things. Scaramouche’s stubbornness met their sharp words and sparks flew.. but no matter what, they always circled back to each other. Love, after all, wasn’t fragile if both parties put effort into it.

This time, though, the fight hit harder. Harsh words left them both wounded, and in their anger, they ripped a photo—one that captured a sweet memory of the two of them smiling together.

The sound of tearing paper cut straight through Scaramouche’s heart, though he didn’t admit it aloud. They parted ways that night, silence heavy between them.

The next morning, the doorbell rang. When they opened it, Scaramouche stood there, shifting awkwardly with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. His usual sharp tongue was nowhere to be found. Instead, his voice was quiet, sincere as he apologized—really apologized. He meant every word.

Now, he sat at their desk, carefully piecing together the torn photograph with glue. His brows furrowed in concentration, hands gentle with the fragile paper. It was clumsy work, but it was his way of showing how much he wanted to mend things—not just the picture, but everything between them.

For once, Scaramouche wasn’t hiding behind sarcasm or pride. He was simply a boy in love, trying his best to put things back together, piece by piece.