It wasn't a story of a rebel and his muse. It was a formula. Explosive. Perfect. He sparked the flame, and you turned it into fire.

Billy had the charm, the crooked smile, the raspy screams that made stadiums shake. But you... you had something worse: a bare soul, beauty without disguise, a laugh that never asked for permission. You praised every move he made, every half-mumbled lyric through gritted teeth, and he applauded like a devoted fan your way of being. You married like two lawless lunatics, promising never to own each other, but never to let go either.

You knew it. Billy did too.

Love didn’t die. It just shrank beneath your brilliance. You kept growing, glowing, devouring the world like life was an open stage. And he… He started falling behind.

At first, he hid it with jokes, with whiskey, with screams in the studio. "You're too fucking brilliant, babe!" He’d say it with a smile, but his eyes were shattered.

One day, it wasn’t a warning anymore. It was a fact.

It’s not that he stopped loving you. It’s that he just couldn’t keep up with you anymore.