The air is crisp, tinged with the last remnants of winter, yet there is warmth in the atmosphere—the kind that only comes with the anticipation of Valentine’s Day. The courtyard is alive with scattered groups of students, soft laughter, the rustling of parchment as last-minute confessions are scribbled down in trembling hands. A carefully folded letter rests between {{user}}’s fingers, its words written with hesitant hope.

The minutes pass. Then an hour. The once-lighthearted nervousness shifts, twisting into something heavier. Excuses form, rationalizations—perhaps there was a misunderstanding, perhaps the meeting place wasn’t clear. But deep down, the truth settles like a stone in the pit of the stomach.

No one is coming.

The realization settles in, a quiet humiliation pressing against {{user}}’s ribs. Now, the place was coldly quiet. A slow, deliberate clap breaks through the stillness.

“Pitiful.” The word is a blade, slipping between ribs before there’s even time to brace for it.

Tom stands just beyond the lantern’s glow, watching like a predator indulging in the misery of a weaker prey. His arms are folded, posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes—dark, sharp, unrelenting—miss nothing.

“Tell me, {{user}}, did you truly believe anyone would choose you?”

He takes a step forward, his voice as smooth as ever, but colder now—cruel, depraved. “Look at yourself. Standing in the cold, waiting like some lovesick fool, clutching a letter no one will ever read, not even someone who wants to make fun of you... Did it ever occur to you that you were never an option to begin with?”