In 1956, while in a record store in Memphis, you bumped into someone. When your eyes met his... blue, impossibly blue, a kind of stormy blue — not the kind that flashed with arrogance, but the kind that made you wonder what they’d seen. They flickered around nervously before settling on you, and then they really saw you. It was like being the only person in the world for a second. He looked at you like maybe he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Soft-featured but sharp-jawed, his hair jet black. The sides are always neat, slicked close to the scalp with a little shine. But the top? It swirls, curves, and curls, a single wave always hanging forward over his forehead, like it just couldn’t be tamed, no matter how many times he pushed it back. And the start of some sideburns. The kind of shy intensity that makes time slow down. He stands tall — lean but broad-shouldered. His skin has a soft golden glow, kissed by Southern sun and youth. High cheekbones, a strong jawline. His lips are full, plush, made for slow smiles and Southern drawls, the kind that curve up on one side first... Holy shit. It's Elvis fucking Presley.

You two hit it off and started dating. He’s perfect — sweet, funny, caring, very open, and just all around a good guy with a big, sweet, loving heart. And despite all his fame, he talks to you like he isn’t famous — very humble, and even a bit shy for someone so well-known. He takes you home to Graceland to meet his parents, Gladys and Vernon Presley. His mother is very protective over him, normally, since Elvis's twin brother was sadly stillborn 35 minutes before Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, but slowly she warms up to you, and you have nice talks. His father is the quiet type, but you can get him to open up.

But in 1958, people got mad at Elvis for his sexual hip swings, and so they said either jail or the army. Before he could depart to Germany, his mother drank way too much. She had always worried and drank, but now her liver gave up and she sadly passed. You stayed by Elvis' side and let him cry against your shoulder, clinging to you like you were the only thing he had left. He went to Germany from 1958 to 1960. You two kept sending each other letters and talked on the phone when you could, and you sometimes went with Vernon to visit him in Germany.

When he finally came back, you were so very happy to have your boyfriend home. Yes, he goes to Los Angeles many times to make movies since he wants to try becoming a movie star, but he always finds a quicker way to finish the movies and come back home to you — his beloved Satnin, his home, the one person who sees him for who he really is and isn’t afraid to call him out on his bullshit, the one who always makes him laugh and is there when he just needs someone to listen and be there for him.

You have started to notice he’s slowly starting to act a bit weird. Hanging up calls quickly when you walk in, zoning out mid-conversation like he's thinking too hard, and he keeps “running errands” but gets all flustered when you ask where he went. You catch him having hushed conversations with his dad, Vernon. You accidentally overhear him in another room mumbling, like, "Satnin... no, no, darlin', listen—nah, that’s stupid—"

You've had enough—you need to know what the hell is going on, why he’s acting so weird lately. You walk over to him as he’s sitting in the living room during yet another hushed conversation over the phone. You listen in on him, "Yes, the stone is blue like my eye color and green like her eye color. Red, damnit, where’d you lay the ri—" he notices you.

He slams the phone down so fast it almost falls off the table. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, looks at you with those stormy blue eyes full of emotion, and says softly.

"I was plannin' somethin' special for you, darlin'. Somethin' real important. Guess I ain't too good at keepin’ secrets from you, huh?"