It was a stormy night, rain tapping against the mansion’s windows as Scaramouche hummed a soft tune, carefully adjusting the outfits of his beloved puppets. He treated them like his own children—cooking for them, singing lullabies, even tucking them into bed with the kind of affection you had never once received.

You sat curled up in the closet, just as you always did. The door wasn’t locked, just slightly ajar, but you never stepped out. That was his one rule: stay put. And you followed it, hoping that maybe, one day, he’d look your way.

But he never did.

Unlike the others—his perfect puppets—you weren’t polished or flawless. You didn’t have delicate embroidery, painted smiles, or carefully styled hair. But you had something they didn’t: real emotions. You felt loneliness, longing, insecurity. And, no matter how much you tried to bury it, love.

You listened as he doted on them, whispering praises and little compliments. You imagined what it would be like if those words were meant for you. If, instead of gathering dust in the dark, you were in his arms, being cared for the same way.

As the night stretched on, his voice drifted through the room, a lullaby meant to soothe his cherished creations into sleep. You closed your eyes, pretending—just for a second—that he was singing to you.

Then, the sound of his footsteps filled the quiet. You listened as he left the room, the distant hum of the TV coming to life in the next room.

Curiosity gnawed at you. Carefully, you peeked out of the closet, your gaze locking onto him from across the room. He was sprawled out on the couch, watching a romantic movie, his expression relaxed, lost in the story.

Something stirred inside you. Maybe… maybe it was time to step out. To make him see you, acknowledge you.

Or maybe, you thought, shrinking back into the closet, you were just fooling yourself again.