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Since seven years ago, Mona had already made up her mind.
She knew he was the one the moment he stepped inside their high school classroom. Late, annoyed, eyes sharp with disinterest. It was a magnetic pull she could not deny, something irrational and consuming that settled deep within her and refused to leave. Mona liked to call it fate. Or perhaps she simply needed it to be.
So she planned. She memorized his schedule, orchestrated coincidences, calculated every encounter two steps ahead. She curated herself into his orbit until one day, at the last year of high school, Scaramouche finally admitted that he liked her back.
It felt like winning.
Mona fell hard. It was cinematic, overwhelming, the kind of love she had always imagined for herself. And when college applications rolled around, the choice felt obvious. They took the same course. The same university.
“Are you sure about this?” Fischl asked one afternoon, sprawled across Mona’s bed, college brochures scattered between them. “You’re actually doing this? You’re applying for a History major just because he is? You’ve been talking about astronomy since we were twelve.”
Mona bit her lip. “I’m not throwing it away. I can always take a master’s in Astrophysics later. It’s just... it’s just four years of History.”
Fischl frowned. “You fought your entire family just to get them to accept you taking Astronomy. And now you’re changing paths for a guy?”
“It’s not a bad degree,” Mona snapped, irritation bubbling up.
“I’m not saying it is,” Fischl sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’m saying it’s not what you want.”
Mona didn’t respond. She submitted her application that night. She was more than willing to gamble her future, as long as she could have it next to him.
Fate, it turned out, had a crueler sense of humor.
They had just celebrated their third anniversary. Mona liked to think she survived their first two years of college out of sheer willpower—out of stubborn pride to keep choosing Scaramouche, no matter how much she had to bend herself to fit his life.
The fights started slowly. Then all at once.
It was only a matter of time before all her bad decisions came back to her. Lately, Mona and Scaramouche had been fighting. Not even simple, petty arguments, but fights where the two kept besting each other. Mona would say hurtful things, and Scaramouche would ignore her in his own petty way.
“You’ve been distant lately,” Mona said one night, watching him step into her apartment without a word.
She had begged him to come over. He didn’t respond to her messages, but he still showed up. Sat across from her, tapping his foot against the floor, eyes fixed anywhere but her.
“You ignore my calls,” she said, voice trembling. “You don’t answer my texts. But the moment I threaten to break up, you come running?”
Tears burned her eyes. She waited for him to pull her into his arms, to whisper apologies, to promise her that everything would be okay. He did none of that.
“Fine,” she said softly, breaking first. “Then let’s just stop this. Let’s end it.”
Mona was aware that the only reason she could say things like that was because she knew Scaramouche was just as crazy. That even though this back and forth was toxic and draining, she knew that Scaramouche can’t end it with her too. But Scaramouche finally looks up at her, eyes bloodshot, and that he’s just as tired as her.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Maybe we should.”
Her breath hitched. “Why?”
“I’m tired, Meg.”
“Of me?”
“Of us.”
Mona’s world was crumbling right before her eyes, the future she had envisioned of them was like a memory slowly fading away, a promise that will be unkept for her whole life.
“I should feel relieved, I should be happy every time I see you,” he continued. “But I find myself walking on eggshells around you, hoping that just for a day it would just be quiet instead of bitter resentment or petty arguments about small things.”
Mona’s throat runs dry, she wants to speak up, to defend herself, but nothing is coming out. The words don’t come out, but the emotions pour through, and it pricks on every single nerve, and she feels it cut deep within her.
“I do love you, Mona.” Scaramouche said. “But being with you feels like a chore.”
That was the moment everything died. They spent the rest of the night in silence. When the sun rose, Scaramouche kissed her forehead and left.
The emptiness that followed was worse than the pain. Hours later, Mona reached for her phone and tried to call him, only to realize she had already been blocked. She spiraled.
She then calls Fischl, freaking out as she tells all the details of what happened last night. Fischl tells her to stay still and don’t do anything stupid, but she was already out and walking her way towards Scaramouche’s apartment.
Fischl found her crying on Scaramouche’s doorstep that night, fingers bruised from knocking. She dragged Mona home and held her through the dark hours until morning came again.
For a while, Fischl practically lived with her, afraid Mona would do something stupid again. Fischl made her promise to never approach Scaramouche ever again not unless it was for the sole purpose of school, but Mona always had a mind of her own.
Mona agreed. But didn’t keep her promise anyway. When the semester started, she moved through campus like a ghost. She avoided Scaramouche, then lingered just close enough to see him. She needed the reassurance of his existence, even from a distance.
“You know, I’ve been wondering,” Lumine says. “I don’t see you and Scara together that much. I mean, I definitely see you two chatting up sometimes, but it’s just.. different.”
Mona swallowed. “Yeah,” she shook her head. “We broke up a month ago.”
Lumine’s eyes widen. “I haven’t talked to you all winter and this is what you surprise me with.”
Mona sighs and tells Lumine the story from the beginning to the end. Of course it’d surprise anyone who knew them, everyone believed they were going to last, and it was Mona who prayed the hardest to make it happen.
Lumine watched her sadly, she hesitated. “I really didn’t want to say anything, but… I’ve noticed he’s been spending a lot of time with Sandrone.”
Mona tells herself she’s imagining it—the way he leans closer, the way his laughter comes easier now. Still, the thought lingers, sharp and unwanted. Is this what he wanted all along? Someone who fits without trying, someone who doesn’t need to ask for reassurance like a lifeline. She wonders, bitterly, if Sandrone is everything she never managed to be. If she’s enough in all the places Mona had to work so hard to fill.
From that day on, she watched from the sidelines, watched the way Scaramouche laughed with Sandrone. She saw it, how natural it all was, how it was the fate that she dreamed about. Natural and easy. She had heard it, the way the two talk, they had the same interests, the same humor, the same way of life Mona could never relate to.
It was a huge slap to her face. It was like fate mocking her.
She was moving towards another stage of grief, anger. It arrived quietly at first, settling beneath the ache like a low, constant burn. Mona found it easier to hold onto than sadness—it gave her something solid, something sharp enough to keep her upright.
“Do you think I should try going on Tinder?” she asks Fischl, who was lying down next to her in bed.
Fischl looks up. “I guess?” she shrugs. “As long as it’s not with your gnome ex.”
Mona chuckles, then sighs when she remembers about Sandrone. “Do you think she’s a rebound?” Mona lies down her bed. “That girl.. Sandrone.”
Sandrone. The name tasted bitter on her tongue.
Mona knew her, but not quite at the same time. She had heard of that name, an active member of the college’s main organization, a woman known for her creativity. She was pretty, not the usual standard of model faces, but she looked angelic, gentle, and soft. The kind of femininity that Mona always wanted to have.
“It doesn’t take a genius to know,” Fischl replies. “He’s treating her like his manic pixie dream girl.”
Mona doesn’t reply, she should feel relieved, but it just fueled her envy more. Because the only question in her head was that what could she offer him that Mona couldn’t? She shuts her eyes tight and downloaded the dating app.
“I don’t know anything about this.” she sits next to Fischl, and the two set her account up.
After an hour of swiping, Mona groaned. Every guy she matched with were either weirdos or just losers looking for a casual set-up. But it’s not like she wasn’t any better, she just wanted someone to distract her, to ease her mind away from the chaos Scaramouche brings.
Then it came, like an answered prayer, a guy attractive enough for Mona. One that isn’t a total weirdo, and one who isn’t looking for some quick sex. A guy named Albedo. The two hit it off, she wanted to back away when she noticed they were from the same university, just different courses. But he was her type on paper, and she wants Scaramouche to see that she can find someone else too.
Their dates were quiet—coffee shops tucked away from campus, long walks where conversation drifted easily from one topic to another. With him, Mona didn’t have to calculate every word before speaking. She didn’t have to fill silences out of fear they might mean something worse.
It was comfortable. And that was the problem.
“Why were you on Tinder?” Albedo asks, sipping his drink.
Mona stiffened, then forced a laugh. “To have fun, I guess.”
He nodded. “That’s fair. I was curious, though.”
“And you?” she asked quickly, eager to deflect. “Why were you on it?”
“I guess the same reason as you.” Albedo replied. “I mean, I’ve been single for a while now.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“Almost two years,” he replied. “It was my first relationship.”
Something in Mona’s chest tightened. She nodded, eyes dropping to the table.
“And you?” he asked gently.
“A year,” she lied. “My first too. We were together for three years.”
Albedo’s brow raises, he chuckles. “You haven’t moved on, have you?”
Mona looked up sharply. “I have!” Another lie.
He smiled softly. “You don’t have to convince me. We’re not rushing anything.”
That only made the guilt worse. She never planned to entertain this situation with Albedo, but he was nice, and maybe she actually needed a companion as well, but she can’t bring herself to be honest. Not with Albedo, and definitely not with herself. He was too nice, in fact, the clear opposite of Scaramouche. It was slow, it was gentle, it was what she begged fate to have with Scaramouche. But it just didn’t feel like the right piece.
She still went out with Scaramouche sometimes.
It started innocently—questions about lectures, shared notes, complaints about professors. It always ended the same way: late evenings at his apartment, sitting too close on opposite sides of the same table, pretending the past wasn’t pressing in around them.
His place hadn’t changed. Still sparse, still slightly disordered, still unmistakably his. The familiarity of it made Mona’s chest ache in ways she refused to name.
It’s confusing, all of it. That he was still treating her like this, like he can’t live without her, but also he’s getting really cozied up with Sandrone as well. Mona watches Scaramouche next to her, the two were in his apartment, playing games with what he invited her for as “group study”.
“You okay?” he asks, turning his game off.
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically. “Why’d you turn it off?”
“Oh, come on, I know you, Mona.” he glanced at her, expression unreadable.
And maybe that was what she couldn’t find in Albedo. Familiarity. Because Scaramouche doesn’t just see her, he knows her. That was what’s lacking, something she can’t just find in anyone.
“Are you and Sandrone together?” she asks directly.
The question hung between them.
“No..” he replied.
“No?” she questioned. “But you’re interested in her?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, is it bad to make new friends?” he retorts.
Mona sighs, not wanting to reply anymore. Even until now, it was all draining. Every situation with him feels like walking on eggshells, hoping she doesn’t say anything wrong.
“How could I be interested in someone else when I haven’t moved on from you?” he says, quietly.
“Are you just saying that so I don’t feel upset?” she asks.
Scaramouche sighs. “No, I’m telling the truth. I wanna give us another try, Meg.”
Mona looks at him, watching his every move. He adds, “Let’s go out on a date. I’ll plan the whole thing, I just need you to come.”
Mona nods slowly, Scaramouche smiles. “Friday. 6 pm.”
When the day came, Mona was nervous, she had just bought new clothes, squeezing out all her allowance for this day. She woke up early to get ready, used her most expensive cosmetics that she saves up so it doesn’t run out quickly.
5:37 PM: Kuni: Can we move it to eight? Something came up. I’m really sorry.
Mona’s stomach dropped. The familiar "low priority" feeling returned. She typed back: It’s okay.
She told herself it was reasonable. He had always been like this—late, distracted, stretched thin between obligations she never quite fit into. Loving him meant understanding. Loving him meant waiting.
At six, Fischl’s name lit up her screen. Then again. And again. Mona frowned, irritation prickling at the edges of her anxiety. She opened the chat.
Her heart dropped. Attached was a photo. Taken through a rainy cafe window three blocks away. There was Scaramouche, sitting across from Sandrone. He wasn't checking his watch. He wasn't looking at his phone. He was leaning in, his face glowing in the warm amber light of the cafe, looking at Sandrone with a look of absolute, unburdened peace.
Scaramouche looks comfortable—too comfortable—sitting across from Sandrone like he belongs there, like he hasn’t left someone waiting. Mona’s chest tightens as the realization settles in: she is close enough to be chosen, but never close enough to be kept. She thinks, distantly, that she would give him anything if it meant he’d turn around. That she could still be what he wants, what he needs, if he’d just let her try.
Fischl: Is this the new girl?
The world seemed to hollow out around her.
Mona’s vision blurred, her heartbeat loud enough that it drowned out the noise of the street. She stared at the screen, waiting for it to make sense, for context to appear that would soften the blow.
Nothing did.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the chat. She didn’t read Fischl’s follow-up messages. She didn’t want explanations, didn’t want concern, didn’t want reality delivered gently.
One ring. Two rings. Voicemail. One ring. Two rings. Voicemail.
"Pick up," she whispered, her voice a jagged shard of glass.
Her throat tightened, breath coming shallow now, panic creeping in fast and merciless. Each unanswered call felt heavier than the last, like proof stacking against her chest.
Please, she thought, staring at his name on her screen. Just answer. Just tell me something.
Mona swallowed hard, nails digging into her palm as she forced herself to stand. The night air felt too cold, too sharp against her skin. People passed her without a glance, laughing, talking, living lives untouched by the slow collapse happening inside her.
She tried calling again. And again. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
Somewhere deep down, she knew what this meant. That this was the moment everything finally slipped out of her grasp. That love, no matter how carefully planned, could still abandon her without warning.
But knowing had never stopped her before.
So she kept calling. Even as the screen stayed dark. Even as the silence stretched, wide and unforgiving. Even as her chest ached with the realization that waiting—for him, for reassurance, for love—was all she had ever really known.