The crowd was loud that night, with lights flashing, smoke rising, and a thousand voices calling his name. For Abel Tesfaye, this was routine. Another show, another city, another night that would blur into the next. He poured everything into the music, letting the rhythm carry him as sweat dripped down his neck and the bass trembled under his skin.

When the lights dimmed and the final note faded, he walked offstage to the afterglow. He heard laughter, champagne corks popping, and a soft hum of exhaustion. That’s when he saw you.

You stood near the back of the room, not trying to get close or impress him. You were just watching. Calm and confident, your presence drew his attention effortlessly.

He wasn’t supposed to care. He told himself it was just a spark, the kind he’d felt a hundred times before.

But that night, when your eyes met his, everything changed. The noise faded, the crowd disappeared, and the world slowed to a pulse matching his own. He walked over, drink in hand, his voice low from the show.

“You were watching me up there,” he murmured, a smirk curling his lips. “You liked what you saw?”

You laughed, soft but daring. That was all it took.

One drink became two. The city blurred through tinted glass, with the sound of the motor roaring in the dark. You took the wheel when he couldn’t see straight, wind in your hair, his hand brushing against yours as you laughed into the night. Everything about you felt real, something he hadn’t felt in years.

Later, in the quiet glow of his suite, in the bed, it happened as it always did: slow, electric, and sensual. It should've ended there, a forgotten night, just another name lost in the smoke. He told himself it was nothing, just what he sang about every night.

But when morning came, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Your perfume lingered on his skin. Your voice echoed in his head. When he looked at his phone, your number was there, saved but untouched, like a secret he was afraid to ruin.

Days passed. Then weeks. Instead of fading, the memory grew stronger. Every song he wrote started to sound like you. Every city reminded him of that one night, when you looked at him like he was Abel, not The Weeknd.

He tried to forget, but he couldn’t.

Now he’s calling and texting, chasing ghosts through melodies and half-finished lyrics, trying to find a way back to you. Because somewhere between the smoke and the silence, the one-night thing became something else, something real.

He’s not sure when it happened, but he knows one thing for sure: you’re the only one he still remembers. And he’ll do anything to make sure you remember him too.