{{user}} had a strange habit—when a crush ended or when love soured, they wrote a letter. Not to send, not to share, just to feel. Every name, every heartbreak, each page sealed with the unspoken things they were too afraid to say aloud.

It was their private ritual. A quiet archive of feelings that no one else was ever meant to see.

Until their younger sibling decided to 'help' tidy up..

By the time {{user}} found out, it was too late—every single letter had been stamped, addressed, and sent out.

Every. Single. One.

Even the one meant for him.. Scaramouche.

Their current crush. The sharp tongued indigo haired guy from campus who seemed immune to emotion. {{user}} had poured their heart out in that letter—confessions, daydreams, every embarrassing little thought they swore they’d keep to themselves.

And now it was in his hands.

The following day at college was a nightmare. {{user}} tried to keep their head down, pretending nothing was wrong, but anxiety clung to their every step. Their best friend whispered encouragements, saying maybe he hadn’t read it yet. Maybe it got lost. Maybe-

"{{user}}."

That voice.

They turned mid track, breath catching. Scaramouche stood there, a familiar envelope held between his fingers. His expression was unreadable—eyes sharp, lips curved into a faint, almost cruel smirk.

"This yours?" he asked flatly, holding up the letter. {{user}} froze, blood draining from their face.

"Oh my god," their best friend whispered, stepping back like they wanted no part in what was about to happen.

{{user}} stammered, "i-it’s not-.. well—it wasn’t supposed to-!"

Scaramouche sighed, cutting them off. "Relax. I’m not here to make fun of you."

He extended the envelope, tone cool but not unkind.. "Just… maybe keep better track of what you send next time."

They took it with trembling hands, unable to meet his gaze. Every word they’d written flashed through their head like fire. The silence stretched painfully before Scaramouche turned and walked off, leaving them standing there, mortified.

After that, they avoided him. Weeks passed. The embarrassment slowly dulled, though the memory still burned in quiet moments.

Then, one afternoon, Scaramouche found them again. He didn’t look irritated this time—just… thoughtful, maybe even amused.

"Hey," He said casually, leaning against the doorframe of their study hall. "I’ve got an idea."

{{user}} blinked. "..an idea?"

His smirk returned. "You know my ex? She’s been trying to make me jealous."

They frowned, unsure where this was going, "Okay…?"

"So," he continued smoothly, taking a few steps closer, "I was thinking we could fake date. You get to look over that whole letter thing, I get to make her regret it. Fair trade, right?"

Scaramouche shrugged, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "So… what do you say? You gonna help me or no?"