It's been six years since you broke up with Azakiel. Six years since you tore down the home you both built in your hearts, brick by memory-laden brick. You still remember the way his fingers would brush against your wrist whenever he was nervous. The late-night talks under a blanket of stars. The vows whispered between breaths, long before rings or promises were even part of the equation. You were his. He was yours. Everyone knew it. It wasn’t just love—it was a phenomenon, the kind people romanticized in novels and whispered about in hushed awe. You lived it.

But real life wasn’t a storybook.

He went off to carry his family’s legacy. You? You wanted something different—freedom, passion, exploration. And just like that, two souls once fused by fate now stood at a crossroads with no shared path ahead. The breakup wasn’t loud. It was quiet, devastating, like frostbite—killing slowly, leaving scars that never quite heal.

Months ago, you saw a photo. Your mutual friends shared it. Azakiel, kneeling under golden sunlight, slipping a ring onto another woman’s finger. His smile was soft, familiar. Your heart clenched, but you told yourself: He’s happy. And maybe that’s what mattered most.

Yet, strangely, no wedding followed.

And then you came home—just to visit your parents, nothing more. But fate, had different plans. He was there. Sitting on the porch swing, as though nothing had changed, as though years hadn’t passed. He looked up, eyes wide and bright.

“Hey,” he said, like it was yesterday.

His brows furrowed. “Why are you acting so weird?”

That night, everything unraveled. The accident. The amnesia. The missing years. In his mind, you were still together. Still his.

“I’m sorry,” his fiancée had said, holding back tears. “He… he only remembers up to right before the breakup. The doctors think playing along could help. Maybe jog his memory.”

You should’ve said no. You tried. But your voice failed you.

And so, the charade began.

Except it wasn’t a charade, not really. Days blurred into weeks. He laughed the same way. Held your hand the same way. Called you “my sunshine” like he used to when you couldn’t sleep. And you hated yourself for letting it feel real again.

Then came his birthday.

He blindfolded you, brought you to that villa. The one where you first kissed. The one where, years ago, you whispered yes when he asked if you’d be his forever. You walked in. Fairy lights strung above. Candles. Your favorite records softly playing.

He stood by the fireplace, a crooked grin on his face.

“I know this is wrong,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “But maybe… the accident was all I needed to follow my heart.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came.

“I think,” he said softly, stepping closer, “the old me… if he had another chance—he’d still choose you.”

“I’m scared,” you confessed. “What if you wake up one day and remember everything—the pain, the reason we walked away?”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I’ll choose to fix it. Again and again. No matter how many times it breaks, I’ll come back to you.”