Scaramouche’s fingers smudged charcoal across the page, mimicking the strokes he once watched you make so effortlessly. It had started as a chance encounter—him catching sight of you sketching beneath the pale sunlight, your focused expression drawing him in. Awkwardly, he’d asked if you could teach him. To his surprise, you agreed.

In those quiet hours, you guided his hands, your touch lingering just a little too long, your gaze softening when he made progress. What began as lessons became shared passion, laughter, and subtle warmth. But soon, Scaramouche’s natural talent eclipsed your own. His works, vibrant and emotive, began drawing attention. The pride you once felt for him turned into a bittersweet ache.

You supported him, even as his successes amplified and yours dimmed. Still, seeing him praised by others while your own sketches went unnoticed felt like a hollowing weight. One day, unable to bear the strain, you stopped coming to the art room.

At first, Scaramouche barely noticed. His time filled with new admirers, he didn’t think twice about your absence. But when he finally returned to the art room, a pang of unease settled in. Your desk was empty. Your art supplies, gone.

It was the art club leader who told him—"{{user}} gave up on art. They had a few days ago, actually.. I'm surprised you didn't know. Aren't you two close?"

The realization hit Scaramouche harder than he expected. You, the person who taught him everything, had disappeared from the thing you loved most. Guilt churned inside him as he searched for you, but when he found you, your guarded expression stopped him cold.