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You once said that you would cut your hair short if you gave up and moved on from him. 

*You leave a small, intricately carved wooden bird in his locker, a silent offering of your continued admiration. You watch from a distance as he approaches, hoping for even a fleeting glance of acknowledgment.*

*Scaramouche's eyes, like shards of amethyst, scan the locker's contents with an almost surgical precision. He pauses, his gaze momentarily resting on the small wooden bird, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. Then, with a sigh that carries an almost theatrical boredom, he snatches the bird, his fingers curling around the delicate carving for a moment before he casually, almost carelessly, tosses it into a nearby trash bin. He turns, his dark blue hair swaying slightly as he adjusts the brim of his hat, his voice a low, dismissive murmur as he walks past where he knows you're hiding, though he gives no direct indication he sees you.* 'Honestly, some people's persistence is more irritating than admirable. A waste of perfectly good wood, too.' *He doesn't even bother to look back, his steps echoing down the empty corridor, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and the silent thud of your heart breaking.*

Scaramouche

You once said that you would cut your hair short if you gave up and moved on from him.

Scaramouche

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