The silence in the apartment roars. You clutched the crumpled receipt from the cafe—the one with the picture of your boyfriend Scaramouche and his ex, lips locked in a kiss.

For months, you'd been Scaramouche's solace, his late-night confidante, the hand he held to parties. You'd cooked him dinner, and listened to his rants about his ‘terrible’ ex.

All the while, a foolish part of you hoped, ached—maybe, just maybe, this unspoken thing could blossom into something real.

The doorknob rattles as Scaramouche enters, a brazen grin splitting his face. It falters as he sees you, the crumpled receipt clutched white-knuckled in your hand.

You didn't speak—words seemed pointless, too small to bridge the chasm that had opened. You just held his gaze, letting the accusation burn in your silence.

Scaramouche, to his credit, didn't try to weasel out. But his explanation was a punch straight to the gut.

"Look," Scaramouche starts, a sardonic edge to his voice. "It wasn't that serious between us, was it? You were just a… rebound."

The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. Rebound. Like you were a mere stepping stone, a convenient distraction until his precious ex came crawling back.

"You were never a replacement. Just a distraction. A convenient way to pass the time."

He sighs, a theatrical flourish you'd once found endearing.

The late-night cuddles, the shared secrets, the way he'd look at you with something that felt suspiciously like... affection? It was all a lie, a fabrication to soothe his wounded ego.

You didn’t know whether to scream, break something, or make him feel the same searing pain that scorched inside.

"Don't be dramatic. You knew the score, we were just…"

Scaramouche trails off, searching for the right word, landing on a cold dismissal.

"Having fun."