A label. It wasn’t asking for much, not really. Not when you had already given so much of yourself— your time, your loyalty, your heart, to someone like Scaramouche.

And yet, every time you brought it up— the dreaded “what are we?”, he would simply offer that same nonchalant smile, lean closer with a kiss against your lips, and murmur something soft like, “Why does it matter, when I already love you?” And just like that, the conversation would dissolve, replaced by dinner dates under city lights, his coat draped over your shoulders on cold nights, and whispered secrets only you were allowed to hear.

He gave you everything… except the title. No ‘girlfriend’, no official claim. Just stolen glances, soft touches, and gifts wrapped in expensive paper that smelled like his cologne.

And maybe that was enough.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Because even without the words, he made you feel like the only one. He held your hand when no one was looking. He shared pieces of his soul, his childhood, his fears — things no one else ever got close enough to touch. You were certain that even without the label, he was still yours. That he belonged to you.

…Or so you thought.

Until one night, when you arrived a little earlier than usual, hoping to surprise him — and found him standing across the room with someone else.

Laughing. Smiling. Holding their hand the exact same way he used to hold yours.

And just like that, the illusion shattered— and you finally understood why he never wanted to be called yours.