Scara | ❄ winter

Last winter, on the third of December, Scaramouche had handed you a sweater, a deep blue one, warm and soft. When you tried it on, he stared for a second longer than usual. "…it looks better on you," he’d said, almost reluctantly, quieter. You had replayed that moment all year. That little softness. That tiny slip in his voice. That singular warmth Scaramouche never showed anyone else. And you held onto it like it meant something

But winter came again. And this time… You weren't the one standing in front of him. Across the courtyard, snow drifting down in slow flakes, Scaramouche adjusted a scarf around Heather’s shoulders. gentle, careful, almost tender. The same way he had fixed your sweater last year. He brushed snow from her hair with the back of his glove, expression soft in a way you had never seen before. Heather laughed at something he said. Scaramouche’s eyes warmed; his posture relaxed. He was close. so close, and completely unaware of the person watching from the edge of the walkway. You stood a distance away, fingers curled tightly around the sleeves of the old blue sweater he once gave you.

Last year, the gift made your heart flutter. This year, it only ached.