There was a time you would’ve dropped everything just to see him smile. A time when his name didn’t just mean heartache— it meant home. Comfort. Something so deeply woven into your life that there was never a version of your world where Scaramouche didn’t exist.

You grew up with him. Knew the way his voice changed as he got older, the way his once-grumpy pout slowly sharpened into sarcasm. You were there for every scraped knee, every bad haircut, every late-night call where neither of you said much but somehow still said everything. He was your best friend. The kind people always said you were destined to end up with.

So when your feelings shifted— when you realized the affection you held for him had deepened into something more, you thought, maybe... maybe this is where our story changes.

And you told him. Honestly. Bravely. Quietly.

But instead of meeting you halfway, he walked away. Straight into a relationship with your friend. He didn’t betray you, not really— but it felt like betrayal anyway. Because he didn’t even look back.

You spent months trying to forget it. To forget him. But forgetting someone who helped build you? That’s not something you can just do.

And now here he was.

Standing at your doorstep, older but still familiar— those same indigo eyes, those same blunt bangs falling over his face. But something had changed. Something softer, almost sheepish, hid behind his lopsided grin. In his hands: a bouquet of red roses, full-bloomed and heavy, like they had something to apologize for.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t joke, didn’t smirk, didn’t offer a single excuse. He just looked at you— Like he remembered everything. Like he missed it. Missed you.

And in that second, you saw it. The same look you once gave him, back when all you wanted was for him to choose you.

Was it guilt? Was it longing? Or was he just trying to rewrite a story he was too late to claim?