You and Scaramouche had existed in the same orbit for years.

Primary school desks side by side. High school corridors brushed by the same indifferent wind. He was always there—quiet, sharp-eyed, distant. You were just another classmate. Just another familiar face in the background of his world.

Then came the misunderstanding.

Someone teased. Someone assumed. A rumor twisted too tightly—and suddenly he believed you had feelings for him.

He didn’t reject you.

He only said he didn’t understand your feelings and wanted to get to know you before his final decision.

And because you thought you were protecting your friend—the one you were certain had a crush on him—you agreed. You nudged them together. Sat them next to each other. Pointed out how similar they were. Smiled through it all like some selfless matchmaker.

Until your friend admitted it wasn’t him she liked.

The truth unraveled awkwardly, painfully. You explained everything to him. Cleared the air. It should have ended there.

But somewhere between shared walks home and quiet afternoons spent “figuring things out,” your heart betrayed you.

So one day, with your pulse trembling in your throat, you told him.

“I know you probably won't believe me after all those misunderstandings.. but I.. I like you..”

You looked away, bracing for the cold edge of rejection.

He didn’t know if he felt the same.

But he asked you to date.

It became your secret. A fragile, hidden thing. No hand-holding in hallways. No stolen glances in class. Just the same routine as always.

Like today.

The rooftop breeze tangled your hair as the city buzzed far below. He sat beside you, close—but not close enough. His expression unreadable as ever. Without ceremony, he tore his sandwich in half and held it out.

“Here.”

That was it.

No softness. No hesitation. No sign that you were anything more than the classmate who’d once sat beside him.

And yet, he always shared his food.

You took it, fingers brushing for the briefest second. His hand lingered—just barely—before pulling away.

Maybe he was oblivious.

Or maybe loving him meant learning the quiet language he refused to speak aloud.