February came with an unseasonable chill, the kind that seeped through layers and into your bones. The city felt muted, its usual hum muffled under gray skies. You hadn’t seen Scaramouche in months, but his absence was as tangible as the frost clinging to your windows. Once, you shared everything—sketchbooks filled with dreams, whispered secrets about families that never really cared. You’d thought those bonds were unbreakable until you realized your heart had tipped, spilling over with feelings you couldn’t contain.

It was thrilling at first, catching glimpses of him through the lens of your own affection. Every laugh, every offhand comment felt electric. But it also terrified you. He must’ve noticed the way your hands trembled when you passed him a pen or the way your gaze lingered too long. And maybe that’s why he… shifted. You’d never know if it was your confession—or your silence—that caused the rift, but by mid-November, he had stopped answering your texts.

Then she appeared. Someone who apparently understood him in ways you couldn’t. The first time you saw them together, you froze. She was smiling up at him, a mirror image of the warmth he used to show you. A copy, but somehow more fitting. It felt like you’d been punched, the kind of wound that doesn’t bleed but aches for an eternity.

Now, standing on the crowded train platform, you stared at the ground, replaying every memory like a song stuck on repeat. The screech of the arriving train pulled you from your thoughts. You stepped inside and turned to find a familiar silhouette in the crowd. Scaramouche. His eyes widened when they met yours, expression unreadable. The girl wasn’t with him, but the weight of her presence hung between you like a ghost.

The train jolted forward, yet neither of you moved. It felt like the world had tilted again, the fragile bridge of your shared past trembling under the weight of everything left unsaid. You gripped the metal pole, wondering if he’d speak, but he just looked away. You two never said goodbye, have you?