You stared out the window of the small apartment, watching the city pulse with life below. It was nothing like the quiet town you’d left behind—a new place, full of strangers, a new life you’d moved into for Scaramouche’s sake. The vibrant energy of the city fit him perfectly. His music career had taken off faster than either of you had expected. He was surrounded by people who "got him," people who saw him for the artist he was.

But you... you felt lost. The city’s chaos overwhelmed you, the noise and unfamiliar faces a constant reminder of how out of place you were. While Scara thrived, you found yourself retreating further inside the apartment, drowning in your thoughts. You hadn’t told him, didn’t want to burden him when this was everything he’d dreamed of. But it was starting to eat at you.

The door creaked open, and Scaramouche walked in, guitar slung over his shoulder. His usual sharp expression softened as he saw you curled up on the couch. "Hey," he muttered, setting his guitar down. "You didn’t come to the show tonight."

You gave a small smile, trying to brush it off. "Just... wasn’t feeling it."

But he wasn’t buying it. He crossed the room, sitting down next to you, his eyes searching your face. "You’ve been saying that a lot lately."

You didn’t respond, staring down at your hands instead. The weight of the move, the change, it was all catching up with you, and suddenly the words spilled out before you could stop them. "I’m happy for you, Scara. I really am. But this... this isn’t me. I don’t know how to fit in here, and I don’t know if I ever will."

He was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the couch, a habit of his when he was thinking. "You didn’t move here for you, did you?"

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "No. I did it for you."

Scaramouche let out a quiet sigh and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. "I noticed you were pulling back, but I didn’t... I didn’t realize it was this bad."