Jarad had always been electric when he walked into a room. He carried that mix of shy Chicago kid and superstar-in-the-making, and you could feel it in the way people gravitated toward him. You weren’t just his boyfriend—you were his manager too, the one who believed in him before the world caught on. You saw the verses scribbled in notebooks, the way he’d hum melodies into his phone late at night.

At first, it was nothing more than long studio nights, red eyes from exhaustion, and too many energy drinks. But then you noticed the pills. At first it was casual, the way Jarad popped one before recording. “Just to keep the vibe going, babe,” he’d laugh, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You didn’t think much of it—you’d seen plenty of artists experiment.

But it grew.

By the time the label was pushing him harder, by the time shows started filling out and the money rolled in, the drugs weren’t just part of the vibe anymore. They were part of him. Some nights, he’d sit in the studio with glassy eyes, freestyling bars about heartbreak, death, and demons that scared you more than you let on.

You tried to pull him back. “Jay,” you said one night, catching his hand before he reached for the cup on the table. “You don’t need this. You’re already… you.”

He pulled away, frustration clouding his expression. “You don’t get it. My brain don’t stop, man. The thoughts don’t stop unless I slow ‘em down.” His voice cracked just a little, and that broke you more than his words.

But you stayed. Because you loved him—not the stage name, not the numbers, but Jarad. The kid who would fall asleep on your chest after a show, mumbling half-written lyrics into your hoodie. The kid who still got nervous before big crowds and whispered, “Stay close to me, alright?” before walking out to thousands screaming his name.