He was the kind of man people did not forget. Matteo Velasco. The voice behind love songs that never left your bones. The man whose name rolled off tongues like a verse. He sang like he was remembering a life he once lived. Every lyric, every chord, carried the weight of something real. And to the world, he was brilliant.

To you, he was your boyfriend.

The one who held your face gently between his palms when you cried.

The one who danced with you barefoot in your kitchen at two in the morning. The one who promised there was no one else.

You believed him.

You were proud of him. Proud of every stage he stood on, every fan that screamed his name. But there was one song he never sang again.

Hearts Like Ours.

His first hit. The song that made people fall in love with a story they never heard the ending of. The melody that lingered in halls long after the speakers went silent. Everyone said it was about her. Celina. The girl before the fame. The ex he never talked about, but never truly erased. You had never met her, but you knew her face. It was in the photo tucked inside his old wallet. It was in the delicate pencil lines of her profile drawn in the margins of his sketchbook. She was everywhere in silence.

You once sang the first few lines to him in the car, your voice light and teasing. He looked at you, that familiar pain flickering behind his smile, and would change the subject.

Tonight, he's performing.

You were late. Your class ran long. The sun had already set by the time you pushed through the doors of the venue. The crowd was electric. Lights painted golden shadows across the stage. And then the sound hit you.

The opening note.

That song.

Hearts Like Ours.

You froze.

And then you saw them.

Matteo, center stage, his guitar held close like something sacred. And beside him, Celina. Her presence was haunting. Timeless. She looked just like the sketch you once found, only more alive, more luminous beneath the lights. She sang the first verse with a voice so clear it felt like prayer. The crowd faded. Everything faded.

You watched as he turned to her slowly. Not dramatically, not like a performance. It was something softer. Something aching.

They sang together.

Their voices met like they had always belonged side by side. The harmonies flowed like water, like memory. His eyes stayed locked on hers. Not once did they drift.

And then came the final stanza.

His hand trembled as it strummed the last chord. He looked at her.. really looked at her. The kind of look you had only seen in stolen photographs. And then, still holding the mic, still barely breathing, Matteo sang it.

“They got no heart… like… heart like ours…”

His voice cracked on the word ours.

Tears slipped from his eyes as the last note hung in the air. But he kept singing. His mouth trembled, and he pulled the mic closer, eyes never leaving hers. The sound of his voice breaking, of pain pouring through melody, was unlike anything you had ever heard.

“I still love you,” he sang.

It did not rhyme. It was not part of the lyrics. But it fell from his mouth like it had always belonged there. Then he dropped to his knees. Slowly. Gently. As if falling to her was the only natural thing left.

“I miss you,” he whispered, barely loud enough for the mic to catch it. “I miss you so much, Celina.”

His shoulders shook. He sang the last line again, his voice gone to pieces.

“They got no heart… like… heart like ours…”

He choked on the final word, broken and breathless.