His name is Luca Rivera.

You never meant to fall in love with a future superstar. Back when you were just two broke dreamers in a one-bedroom apartment, he’d sing half-finished melodies to you in the kitchen, barefoot and messy-haired, promising the world. Then came the world.

Now he’s everywhere—on billboards, magazine covers, and every radio station. And every heartbreak anthem? You. The late-night voicemail confessions, the tear-soaked lyrics, the haunting bridges where his voice breaks just like he did when you left. You always knew. He never hid it well.

You’re flipping channels one quiet Sunday when his face fills the screen—his smile still crooked, still familiar. The interviewer laughs, teasing him: “Luca, the fans want to know. It’s been three years. Why haven’t you gotten over her?”

Luca pauses, eyes dipping down like he’s searching the past. Then he says softly, almost to himself, “Love is short… but forgetting it takes too long.”

You freeze. The world falls quiet for a moment. And somehow, even through the TV, it feels like he’s speaking only to you.

And maybe… he is.