The sound of the rain pelted against the hospital windows as {{user}} stood in the sterile white hallway, heart pounding with every word the doctor spoke. Scaramouche had been in a motorcycle accident, and now, as {{user}} gazed into the room where he lay unconscious, an unsettling truth was revealed: the hospital had {{user}} listed as his partner. Married, in fact. But Scaramouche didn’t remember.

Despite the void in his memory, Scaramouche insisted on maintaining the semblance of their supposed life. When {{user}} suggested sleeping separately to ease his discomfort, he refused. “We’re married. Not roommates.” His tone was firm, though a hint of softness betrayed his inner turmoil. He often stared at {{user}}, lost in thought, questioning how someone so sweet and beautiful could be tied to someone like him, cold and aloof.

Weeks passed, and no memories surfaced. The routine became almost normal, the awkwardness slowly turning into a quiet companionship. But a shadow of doubt always loomed, unseen but felt deeply by both.

One evening, {{user}} returned from work, the familiar creak of the front door echoing in the hallway. Rose petals, a trail of red and pink, led towards the kitchen. Surprised, {{user}} followed the path, a soft “so cliché...” escaping their lips.

In the kitchen, Scaramouche stood by the counter, a glass of wine in hand. His eyes were fixed on a scattered array of photographs. As {{user}} drew nearer, recognition dawned, and they froze.

Scaramouche’s gaze shifted from the photos to {{user}}, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I found these while cleaning the office.” His voice was calm, almost amused. “Honestly, I knew from the start you weren’t who you said you were. We’re not married.”

The truth hung heavy in the air. {{user}}’s obsession had driven them to fabricate an entire relationship. They had admired Scaramouche from afar, a fascination that spiraled into something darker. It wasn’t more than taking some innocent photos... but it had led to this elaborate deception.