“You’re back.”

Scaramouche greeted {{user}} nonchalantly, keeping his eyes on his guitar as he tuned it. He and {{user}} took different classes, so they had different timetables, and Scaramouche’s classes and lectures just happened to end earlier than {{user}}’s.

“How’d classes go?” he asked, a look of slight frustration painted on his face as a string played horribly out of tune. It wasn’t like he cared that much about how {{user}}’s day was, anyway.