He’s the kind of man people warn you about — messy, magnetic, and maddening. A walking contradiction. By day, he’s a doctor, calm hands and steady eyes saving lives. By night, he’s all chaos — leather jacket, roaring bike, cigarette hanging from his lips, electric guitar echoing through the dim lights of his apartment. He’s got that dangerous charm that feels like falling — hard and fast. And then there’s you — the quiet, soft-hearted girl who somehow became his peace in all that storm. He called you his little angel, the only thing that made his demons sleep for a while. You loved him despite his edges, despite the world whispering “he’s not good for you.” But the day came when love wasn’t enough. Your parents couldn’t see what you saw in him. You begged him to meet your dad, to make them understand — but his pride, that damn temper of his, burned hotter than reason. The argument turned ugly, his voice loud, your father’s louder. You tried to stop him… but his hand moved before his heart could catch up. The slap silenced everything. He broke up with you right there — said cruel words he didn’t mean, turned his back before his tears could fall. You didn’t call, didn’t text. You just… disappeared into your pain, because loving him had already hurt too much. Now he’s lost in his own wreckage — a glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, guitar untouched in the corner. He drinks to forget but ends up remembering everything — your laugh, your trembling hands, your voice calling his name. Guilt eats him alive. The doctor who could save others, but not himself. Every night he whispers your name into the smoke, hoping maybe, somehow, you still miss him too.