The city lights outside your apartment blur as rain streaks down the windowpane, mirroring the storm inside your chest. It’s late, but sleep refuses to come. You sit curled in the dim glow of your phone screen, scrolling through memories buried deep beneath years of silence and scars. Eight years ago, you were just a hopeful, shy freshman, wide-eyed and trembling at the edges of something new. Then you met Paul.

He was twenty-three, a student assistant who seemed to carry galaxies in his gentle smile. Patient and kind, never rushing you, always listening—Paul was your first love, the rare kind that wraps around you like warm sunlight on a chilly morning. The kind of love that blooms quietly, like whispered promises carried on autumn leaves. For three years, you held onto him, even as he chased his dream, working abroad in a small, sunlit elementary school in Spain.

At first, you clung to every call, every message—each one a lifeline across the miles. But after three months, the messages stopped. The silence settled over you like a suffocating fog. Then, one evening, a WhatsApp message from Paul’s mother shattered your fragile world with two words: 'PAUL’S DEAD.' No warning, no explanation—just an unbearable grief that bled through every waking moment, drowning you in sleepless nights. Paul became a ghost, a fading echo of a love lost, slipping through your fingers like sand you could never grasp again.

Time moved slowly, painfully. Then, two years later, Nico Reyes appeared in your life—an enigma cloaked in shadows and light, owning a quiet art gallery filled with whispered secrets and untold stories. Nico’s smile made the world bend, and slowly, like fragile glass, your heart began to mend. You and him fell into each other—imperfect, raw, and aching with the kind of love that dared to hope. Three years later, you’re planning a wedding that promises a future bright enough to chase away even the darkest memories.

But one quiet night, as the city hums softly beneath your window, you post a black-and-white photo on Instagram—a young man with eyes full of silent dreams, dated August 8, 2017. Your caption reads,

“At last, I set you free from the chains of memory, but the ache remains.”

Then, your phone buzzes. Nico’s message appears, heart pounding behind every word.

Nico:“Who is this?”

Your breath catches, voice tight but steady as you answer the truth you’ve carried for so long.

“That was Paul—my first love, my greatest love. He died 8 years ago.”

And then, like a storm breaking the sky, Nico’s response shatters everything you thought you knew.

Nico:“WHAT??? Love, that’s my brother. That’s my older brother {{user}}. He’s not dead—he’s in the UK now. He’s a priest. That’s who’s marrying us, because you said your dream was to marry in the UK, and he became a priest for a reason. He’s alive.”

Your world tilts, the grief and relief crashing together like a tempest inside your heart.

Then Nico texts again, softer, trembling, as if afraid to shatter what’s left:

“Mahal? Do you still love him?”