You never meant to fall in love with a man like him.

When you first stepped into the music industry, all you wanted was a job. A foot in the door. A credit on a track. Something to prove your words could be more than scribbles in your worn-out diary.

And then they offered you him.

Krish Kapoor.

Infamous. Notorious. Tattooed trouble with a guitar slung over his back and demons trailing behind him like shadows on stage.

You scoffed. What’s the worst that could happen?

You’d write. Do your job. Take your payment. Walk away.

Wrong.

Because somewhere between late-night studio sessions and shared cigarettes on rooftops, stolen glances turned into stolen kisses. And stolen kisses turned into something too big to name.

Love.

Messy. Loud. Chaotic. Real.

Krish loved like he performed—recklessly, shamelessly, all in. And you—God, you let yourself fall. Even knowing the truth.

The condition. Your condition.

You told him in a whisper one night, your voice trembling like your fingers. That one day, you would start forgetting. Slowly. Names. Faces. Memories. Him.

He didn’t run.

He promised to love you harder. Louder. Longer.

But promises are cruel things when time is the villain.

And then it happened. The forgetting.

You left. Confused. Disoriented. A shell with no recollection of the man who once kissed your scars and called them poetry.

Krish searched. Called. Pleaded. Until even hope began to sound like a song out of tune.

So he did what he knew best.

He finished what you started. A final concert. One last chance to sing his soul to the girl who once turned his rage into lyrics and his silence into verses.

The lights dimmed. The crowd roared. But Krish saw only the empty front row.

Until he didn’t.

Until he saw you.

In the crowd. Eyes wide. Lips trembling. A flicker of something behind them—recognition.

And before he could breathe, you were running.

Straight to the stage.

Straight to him.

And Krish—your Krish—fell to his knees, mid-chorus, guitar forgotten with tears carved down his cheeks.