Back in high school, Scaramouche never really understood why {{user}} liked him.

He was the type of guy who slouched at the back of the classroom, eyes half-lidded with disinterest, headphones tucked beneath his hoodie, and sarcasm constantly brimming on his tongue. Teachers called him 'difficult' and classmates whispered that he was cold, maybe even a little mean.

But not {{user}}.

They talked to him like he wasn’t a puzzle to solve, laughed at his dry remarks like they were jokes and not just reflexive defense mechanisms, and they sat beside him at lunch like it was the most natural thing in the world—even when he said nothing.

He didn’t get it. Not at first.

Then came that rainy afternoon—almost like in a movie, the two of them stuck under the same bus stop roof, backpacks soaked and clothes drenched. He watched as they tried to wring water out of their sleeves, shivering but still grinning at him, like the downpour was just background noise.

“Why do you keep following me around?” He asked, voice flat, eyes narrowed like always.

{{user}} only shrugged, teeth chattering. “Because I like being around you.”

And that was it.

His chest flipped—sharp, unexpected. Something small and fragile cracked open inside him. He didn’t say anything back, but from that day on, everything was different. The stolen glances, the quiet walks home, the comfort of someone who never asked him to be anything else. They started dating not long after, quietly and completely.

But time moved forward. College came—different cities, different futures. And just like that, they lost contact..

Years later, Scaramouche found himself wandering a narrow street near campus, bitter tea in one hand, hoodie unzipped, earbuds in and playing something soft he’d never admit he liked. He was older now. Still sharp tongued, still closed off—but softer. The edges had worn down.

Then he saw them.

Just a flash, out of the corner of his eye—someone carrying a grocery bag and their phone, head tilted in concentration. Familiar. Unbelievably so. He almost kept walking.

But his chest stuttered and he stopped. {{user}} turned, sensing him before really seeing him. Their eyes met—and just like that, time folded in on itself.

He hadn’t changed much—still had the red eyeliner that gave his eyes that signature tilt, still had the same unreadable stare. But now, there were new things too—tired lines beneath his eyes, a kind of quiet weariness from all the years in between.

Memories crashed into him—of moonlit strolls, of fingers brushing under streetlights, of kisses and dates..

“…You,” Scaramouche breathed, voice quieter than they remembered. Still low. Still unmistakably him.