Scaramouche was dying. And you didn't know. The flowers in his lungs were growing too fast and his chest felt tight.

It was a cruel twist of fate that he had fallen in love with the very person who could never love him back. And even crueler that he would soon be gone, leaving behind the one he loved most.

"{{user}} doesn't love me in the way that I need to be loved.." Scaramouche whispers to himself. A tear rolls down is cheek. He found himself longing for your touch, your laughter.