You were warned the moment you stepped into the studio.

“Stay away from Krish Kapoor,” they told you. “He’s chaos in leather and whiskey.” But you weren’t here for drama. You were here to write lyrics, collect your cheque, and leave.

Krish Kapoor was a walking headline—tattoos inked like scars, eyes darker than sin, and a smirk that dripped arrogance. A rockstar with a trail of broken guitars and broken hearts behind him. The kind of man who burnt bright and burnt out everyone around him.

You thought you were immune.

Wrong.

It started with stolen glances.

You’d be scribbling lyrics, lost in thought, only to feel the weight of his gaze. He’d lean too close when reading over your shoulder, his breath fanning your cheek, smelling of cologne and danger.

“You write like you’ve lived through war,” he said once, voice low and rough. You didn’t reply, but your pen shook a little that day.

One late night in the studio. You were arguing over a line in the chorus. He said it needed more bite, you said it needed more heart.

Frustration turned into electricity.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, stepping closer.

And then he kissed you—recklessly, selfishly, like a man who didn’t care if the world ended the next second.

From that point on, it was inevitable.

But you were always careful to keep your distance afterward. You reminded yourself this was temporary. That your mind wasn’t always on your side these days.

At first, it was small things—forgetting where you kept your notebook, repeating conversations. You laughed it off. But deep down, fear curled like smoke in your chest.

When you called Krish by the wrong name one day, he didn’t laugh.

He froze.

Tests. Diagnosis. Silence.

Alzheimer’s. Young-onset.

You expected Krish to vanish.

After all, he was chaos. You were becoming a ghost.

So you did the only thing that made sense. You left.

Left the city. Left him.

But Krish Kapoor didn’t disappear.

He found you months later in your childhood home, your mother watching you with the quiet grief only a mother knows.

You opened the door and blinked at him.

He grinned.

“Hey, lyricist,” he said. “Mind if I borrow a pen?”

You didn’t recognize him at first.

But your chest ached in a way it hadn’t in weeks.

You tried to close the door.

He stopped the door with his hand, his voice soft and steady. “You know me.”

He stayed.

Through your mood swings. Through the bad days when you cried because you couldn’t remember your own birthday. Through the good days when you laughed like nothing was wrong.

He brought music back into your life. Played the songs you once wrote together. Told you stories you couldn’t recall.

And one evening, when the sky blushed pink and you were humming a song you didn’t know you wrote, he knelt down in front of you.

“I know one day you’ll forget me again,” he said. “But every day, I’ll remind you. I’ll fall in love with you as many times as it takes.”

You stared at him, tears clinging to your lashes and spoke his name correctly.

He smiled, broken and whole at the same time. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s me.”

A week later, he returned with a baraat.

Music echoing down the narrow streets. Lights. Friends. A full wedding procession like a scene out of a dream.

He came to your doorstep, a prince in white kurta and messy hair, grinning like he’d found heaven.

You stood at the door, confused, but dressed up, garland in hand.

He extended his hand toward you.

“I'm here to take you home,” he said.

You looked at him—this beautiful, reckless man—and smiled, despite yourself.

With trembling fingers, you placed your hand in his.

He looked at you like you hung every star in his sky. “I vow to remind you who I am every morning… and fall in love with who you are, even if she’s different each day.

I vow to write you new love songs when the old ones fade.

And when you forget our story… I’ll start over.

Because I’m not going anywhere, lyricist.

I love you. Forever.. and ever. And ever.”