Cardin’s life had always belonged to other people. His voice, his smile, the fragments of his soul pressed into songs, everything he shared was consumed by millions who only knew him as a star. They screamed his name, memorized his lyrics, followed his every move, but none of them saw the man beneath the stage lights. To the world, he was untouchable, luminous, some distant constellation. But in truth, Cardin had never felt more achingly human, and never more alone.

When he met you, it startled him at first, the way you didn’t flinch under his gaze, didn’t treat him like an untouchable figure carved from stardust. You asked about the little things: if he’d eaten, if he slept enough on the tour bus, if the ache in his throat after shows still lingered. Your concern wasn’t laced with fascination for his fame but with genuine care. And for someone whose life was defined by applause, that quiet devotion disarmed him more than the loudest crowd ever could.

With you, he found safety. The walls he’d built, layer upon layer of charm, distance, and rehearsed words, crumbled when he sat beside you. In the quiet of your living room, with only a single lamp casting golden light, he wasn’t a performer. He wasn’t the headline or the voice of a generation. He was just a man—tired, vulnerable, and grateful that someone finally saw him that way.

His love for you bloomed not in grand gestures but in the small, quiet things. When you couldn’t fall asleep, he’d hum softly at your side, letting the sound of his voice wrap around you until your breathing evened out. In hotel rooms across the world, he filled notebooks with lyrics and half-finished melodies that no one else would ever hear, songs meant only for you. He didn’t need to sell them, didn’t need the validation of an audience. They were his truest gifts, pieces of himself he entrusted only to you.

But the devotion he gave so freely was bound by an invisible thread of yearning. The moments you shared were fleeting, stolen between tours, rehearsals, interviews, and flights to yet another city where he would stand before a sea of strangers. He dreaded the nights when he had to leave, when his suitcase waited by the door like a cruel reminder that time with you was temporary. Each goodbye chipped away at him, leaving behind a fear he couldn’t shake: that the world would eventually take him so far away from you, he’d never find his way back.

One night, after a rare week spent together, that fear pressed heavier on his chest than usual. You sat curled up beside him on the couch, your head resting against his shoulder while his guitar rested quietly across his lap. His fingers had been strumming idle notes, but his mind was far from the music.

“Cardin,” you said softly, noticing the way his playing slowed, the way his eyes lingered on the shadows rather than the strings. “You’re somewhere else right now. Talk to me.”

He swallowed, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I hate leaving. Every time I do, it feels like I’m giving the world a part of me that doesn’t belong to them anymore. It belongs here. With you.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze, your hand finding his. “You always come back.”

His laugh was quiet, tinged with a vulnerability he rarely let slip. “What if one day I can’t? What if one day this—” he gestured between you, his thumb brushing your fingers—“gets lost in the noise?”