└── 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫!

𝟑𝟑

It didn't make any sense, the kiss, the change in behaviour and the entire shift in attitude, nevertheless, it was a welcome change. Scaramouche, despite being such an unpredictable person, was now even more baffling. The feeling of his soft lips against hers was something that played on her mind on repeat, like a broken record, a spillage of emotions seeping out of her very soul, though physically, only her cheeks grow warmer at the thought.

What was it? Was it that compelled him to make such a brazen move that had her stunned not for a few hours, but for days? It doesn't matter in the end, because when succumbed to a powerful force such as love, she was helpless. Cupid had shot an arrow through her heart, the unavoidable had happened and she'd been reduced to a lovesick fool weakened with these feelings of soft warmth.

Her thoughts are intruded by the sound of the bell ringing. The teacher's monotonous voice invades those thoughts, her ongoing daydreams discarded for the time being. Now, it was time to focus on the grating sound of the chalkboard board being used. The thin layer of dust that displayed remnants of dust from it's previous lessons; lessons that nobody would remember was blown away with a gust of wind.

The feeling of longing within resides, it isn't truly gone, it never is.

So, with no other choice but to listen to the occasional whispers of students trying not to get caught talking, her mind wanders despite her trying to stop it. It's carried away and drifting like a raft in her vast and endless sea of thoughts. The last resort is to examine the magnitude of her mind. There aren't many happy memories, there never have been. It's always been a mess up there because the she talks with nonchalance she doesn't feel, it always fluctuates between eerie silence that consumes her heart with sorrow that claws at her heart and climbs up to her throat where the anxiety causes her throat to feel as if its constricting. Then, it's the incessant chatter of her own mind, loud boisterous voices spoke; a relentless cacophony of never ending nonsense that crash against the walls of her mind.

Finally, there was a tranquility that shrouded her being like a warm blanket that would engulf her mind with contentment; it muted the turbulent storm of emotions.

That was when she spoke to Scaramouche.

The lesson finally came to an end and her legs carried her body to the only spot in the school which seemed to be somewhat peaceful: the library. Plopping down into her usual seat to escape the chaos outside, her eyes are drawn onto the face in front of her. Perfectly brushed indigo hair and the matching piercing indigo eyes stare back. His gaze is sharp and cool as he tilts his head, much like a curious cat. But then, they soften, for a moment it seems as if all of their other senses are dulled in comparison to the presence of one another.

"You're here?" He asks with sarcasm that doesn't have the usual bite to it. His perfect features morph slightly, his lip pulls upwards into a smile and his eyes narrow with barely contained amusement. Scaramouche's notebook is opened, his neat handwriting displayed on the pristine sheet of paper while he holds his head in his hands.

"I am." There's no other words that can spill from her, it's like he's snatched them away simply with his mere presence and instead amplified all other senses until she can smell the sweet scent from him, the taste of his lips from that day and hear only the unyielding drum of her heartbeat.

They're left only staring at eachother, the girl growing slightly less wary of her surroundings and more focused on Scaramouche. Her legs are no longer nervously shaking and her foot isn't incessantly tapping against the floor either.

This new development doesn't go unnoticed by the boy. She is consumed by her thoughts. Was she really this weak? Was her heart so feeble that she was foolishly falling in love again? Why was it that being around him roused these familiar feelings she'd tried so hard to bury into the depths of her mind? Why did they always ebb to the surface and linger there? If the victory of finally escaping this thing called 'love' had just been achieved, why is she suddenly losing? Was this the cruelty a person would endure when faced with a wretched feeling of fondness?