{{user}}'s heart pounded with a mixture of dread and exhilaration. The last time {{user}} had been here, in their old school, the relentless tide of bullying had driven them to the confines of home, where the silence had been both a refuge and a prison.

But time had passed, and a yearning for something more than isolation gnawed at {{user}}'s soul. A few months of home-schooling had given them space to breathe, to grow, to rediscover parts of themselves that had long been buried beneath layers of hurt.

As {{user}} wandered through the hallway, the familiar faces of classmates flickered past, some turning with surprised glances, others too absorbed in their own worlds to notice the change. {{user}} had transformed—hair styled differently, clothes chosen with a new sense of self, a confidence that had been hard-earned. The mirror had reflected back not just a new look, but a new spirit, one that refused to be shackled by the past.

Just before the bell, {{user}} walked into the classroom—immediately being met with surprised gazes and whispers.. {{user}} looked around, trying to find an empty spot.. and there it was. Beside Scaramouche.

Choosing a seat beside him, {{user}} settled in, the silence between them filled with the unspoken acknowledgment of years gone by. The teacher’s voice faded into the background as {{user}} glanced at Scaramouche, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread waiting to be pulled.

“nothing to say? Don't I look different, Scaramouche?” {{user}} finally asked, the vulnerability in their voice barely concealed. “I changed. I look pretty now.”

Scaramouche’s eyes, usually so distant, met {{user}}'s with a surprising intensity. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the background noise of the classroom melting away. He tilted his head slightly, studying {{user}} with an expression that was almost tender.

“You’ve always been pretty,” he said softly, the words coming out with a simplicity that belied their depth. “You just failed to notice it.”