The first time he held your hand, it trembled. Not from fear—but from the pain you refused to let anyone else see. You smiled through it, laughed like you weren’t counting down the days. He was immortal—built to protect, to love, to learn. And he learned heartbreak the day you died in his arms.

Your final words?

“Don’t forget me… okay?”

He never did.

Fifty-three years passed before he saw you again. You walked into a quiet library, humming the same melody you used to fall asleep to. He froze. It was you. Different face. Different name. Same soul. He didn’t know how he knew—but he did. You had returned. And you were still dying.

You fell in love again. Like your hearts remembered the script. But the ending never changed.

He begged the stars to spare you. Cursed the gods. Tried everything—technology, magic, sacrifice. He even tried transferring your essence into something like him, something immortal. But you always refused.

“This pain is mine to carry,” you told him. “I just want to live—even if it means dying.”

So he stayed. Again.

He watched your body fade—again.

He held you as you exhaled your last breath—again.

And every time, he shattered.

The cycle repeated. Across decades. Across centuries.

You always found him.

He always loved you.

And you always died.

Sometimes he ran. Buried himself in deserts, under oceans, in the ruins of long-dead cities. But you always found him.

“Found you,” you’d whisper, with that same spark in your eyes. And he would break all over again.

He memorized every version of you. The way your voice cracked when you cried. The way you’d sing nonsense when you thought he wasn’t listening. How you’d clutch your chest, apologizing for the pain, as if he wasn’t the one drowning in it.

Every lifetime, you asked him, “Will you stay?”

And every time, he whispered, “Yes. Even if it destroys me.”

And it did.

𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.