Scaramouche was magnetic. Everyone knew him—the sharp-tongued guy with a confident smirk and too much charm for his own good. You were just… there. The one who trailed a few steps behind, who knew what brand of tea he liked and when he preferred silence over chatter.

Every day, without fail, a girl would stop you in the hall, face flushed, asking shyly, “Can you give this to him?” A letter, always folded neatly, sealed with hope.

The first time it happened, he glanced at the letter, then at you, and scoffed. “If you wanted to confess, you could’ve done it without all this drama.” He handed it back without reading it, and the poor girl behind you ran off in tears.

The second time, he rolled his eyes. “Very funny,” he said, ripping the envelope in half without hesitation. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor.”

Eventually, the letters piled up. He stopped reading them, stopped acknowledging them at all. You’d toss most before he even saw them.

But something changed. A slow, quiet realization that slipped under your skin—how your heart sped up when he looked your way. How it ached a little when someone else tried to get close to him. You liked him. Somehow, somewhere along the way, the feelings stopped being simple.

You wrote a letter.

No perfume, no stickers, no glittering heart doodles. Just you, on paper, more honest than you’d ever been aloud.

You handed it to him like the others. He sighed and reached for it lazily.

“You should just throw them away at this point.”

“It’s from me,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I wrote it.”

Silence.

You dared a glance, expecting a scoff, a laugh, some careless shrug.

But instead… his eyes were wide. Lips parted slightly. His hands trembled.

Scaramouche, the untouchable, the unshakable—was crying.

Because of you.