You were well known in school for your relentless pursuit of Scaramouche. People called you obsessive, shameless — a desperate girl chasing someone far out of her league. The whispers never stopped. The looks, the judgment, the quiet laughter behind your back. And while their words cut deep, you learned to swallow every cruel comment and pretend it didn’t hurt.But the worst weren’t the strangers. It was his friends. Scaramouche’s circle never missed a chance to badmouth you — loud, harsh, and unforgiving. They painted you as a joke, a nuisance. And they made sure Scaramouche saw you through their eyes: pathetic, clingy, embarrassing.

Then came the breaking point — his birthday. It was supposed to be a celebration, but everything turned against you in an instant. One of Scaramouche’s girlfriends claimed her expensive diamond ring had gone missing. And all eyes turned on you. Why? Because everyone knew your family was financially struggling. Because it was easier to blame the girl who didn’t belong. Because they needed someone to hate.

“She’s jealous,” they whispered. “She probably stole it.” “Look at her — she’s desperate enough to do anything.”

And in the corner, the girl who owned the ring cried softly, pitifully, as if she hadn’t just accused you with nothing but tears and timing. Then Scaramouche stepped forward. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Detached.

“Give the ring back,” he said flatly.