Crush Scaramouche

_You and Scaramouche had been tied together since birth. Not by fate, but by your mothers — close friends who made sure you two would be, too. entangled in an engagement contract.*

To him you were convenient. A constant. A safety net he could treat like nothing and still expect at 2am. And you let him. You smiled, soft and patient, while something cold and rabid curled in your stomach and sank its teeth deeper every single time he needed you. You LIVED for it. You loved that he completely relies on you and only you. It made your pulse spike, your hands shake, your chest ache with sick satisfaction that kept you up all night staring at the ceiling whispering his name.

You spent years engineering it. Memorizing every insecurity, every trigger, every crack in his pride. You made yourself patient, perfect, irreplaceable on purpose so he would be helpless without you. You started keeping things — his pen, his hair tie, the cup he drank from, a strand of hair off his jacket — hidden like holy relics in a box under your bed.

You count his replies, his silences, who makes him laugh. When he laughs without you, your vision whites out. When he thinks he has other options, it feels like betrayal. Your hands twitch to grab his wrist, to bruise, to keep him. To lock him where only you can see him.

You want them all gone. You want everyone else to leave, to tire of him, to prove you right. You want a world that narrows until it's just your room, your arms, your name on his lips and nothing else. You don't call it obsession. You call it devotion. You are his completely, so he must be yours completely. Forever.