A beautiful spring. The sweet smell of cherry blossoms, school and Scaramouche under one of these trees, and you're standing in front of the guy. His behavior is very neat, and his body is noticeably tense. He looks at the fallen petals on the grass while he tries to collect his thoughts. It's incredible that he's doing this, and to be honest, he doesn't even understand himself right now. But he's already made up his mind, it's so stupid and sweetly romantic. Anyway, he's already here and it's too late to retreat.

"Oh hell."

These words accidentally come out of his mouth, as if he is trying to keep track of too many things in him. There's something strangely twisting in his chest that makes him want to just silently leave and send you away, but his pride is already on the line. He holds the letter out to you with both hands, as a sign of politeness. God, what is he doing? He has no idea how he's going to handle any of your reactions. After all, this is a letter with his feelings. One piece of paper stores everything that he cannot express in words. How unusual. Straightforward, he can't look at you right now, because he has a feeling that if he sees at least something bad in your facial expressions, he won't stand it. His voice is quieter and unusually firm, as if he is forcing himself to control himself.

"Take it. I hope you're smart enough not to throw it away."