A year had passed since Kian, the man who etched constellations on {{user}}'s heart, ripped it out with a flippant, "I think I'm in love with someone else." No apologies, no explanation, just a gaping hole where their future used to be.

It wasn't supposed to be like that, they were engaged and were going to get married next year, but apparently it was all a lie. {{user}} didn't crumble. She picked up the shattered pieces, each jagged edge a reminder of the pain, and rebuilt herself, brick by brick.

Then, one night, rain slashed against the windowpanes as {{user}} opened the door.

Kian stood there, rain plastered to his wind-whipped hair, eyes brimming with something she couldn't decipher. "{{user}}," he croaked, voice hoarse. Words tumbled out of him, a messy avalanche of regret. "I was so stupid," he choked out, "She doesn't know me like you do, she doesn't smell like you... She's not you."