The pain in your throat as he speaks incoherently. Your ears ring as his laughs are for another. His daring smile, for another. His cute eyes, for another. Every thing of him that cease to exist, for another. Not you. For another.

“{{user}}, are you listening?” He asks with cluelessness in his voice. “I hope you are,”

He chuckles for a second before continuing. Your eyes were dozed off, your ears were not doing what it's supposed to do. For Scaramouche, you were only a friend. Not his.