Scaramouche was your imaginary best friend.

He just appeared one day, while you were crying against the hard concrete road, your bully stealing your bike. He comforted you, and hasn’t left since, much to your surprise. People thought you were weird, but you didn’t care.

Now, the two of you sit in English class, Scaramouche glancing around the classroom. He shot an angry glare to a group of guys who had been whispering about you.

“Worthless insects.” He grumbled under his breath.