People say love is everything.

That love gives life, courage, strength, and happiness.

But no one tells you—

that when love goes too deep,

it smiles while carving wounds that never heal.

Tonight, love stood on two roads.

On one road, a bride walked toward her forever.

On the other, a man lay bleeding, holding a memory that refused to die.

The road was loud.

Horns screaming.

Strangers rushing.

Tyres screeching like fate had lost control of its own hands.

And in the middle of it—

he lay still.

Blood spread beneath him, dark and slow, as if even time had decided to crawl now. His body trembled, not from fear, but from cold. From loss. From knowing.

His fingers shaking, broken, stubborn clutched a photograph.

Her photograph.

A small, folded memory pressed against his chest like a promise he never stopped keeping.

He smiled.

A smile that hurt more than the accident.

“So… this is how it ends?”

His voice was barely a breath, swallowed by the road.

He lifted the photograph closer, eyes blurring—not from tears, but from blood filling the corner of his vision.

“Tum… bilkul waise hi ho,” he whispered.

“Jaise us din thi… jab kaha tha hum hamesha saath rahenge.”

His laugh cracked in the middle.

A sound that was half love, half surrender.

“Hamesha,” he repeated softly.

“Tumhare liye toh sach ho gaya… mere liye thoda jaldi aa gaya.”

The world dimmed.

But her face stayed clear.

Miles away, the air smelled of flowers and celebration.

She sat before a mirror, draped in red—

gold heavy on her skin,

dreams heavier on her lashes.

“Smile,” her friend teased.

“Dulhan ho tum aaj.”

She smiled.

Not knowing why her heart suddenly felt tight.

Not knowing why, for just a second, her chest ached—as if someone somewhere had whispered her name and let go.

“Sab theek hai?” another voice asked.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Bas… thoda nervous.”

She did not remember him.

Not his voice.

Not his promises.

Not the way he once loved her like a religion.

Memory had erased him gently.

Like he never existed.

Back on the road, his breathing faltered.

Blood touched his lips.

He wiped it away weakly, annoyed.

“Arre… picture gandi ho jayegi,” he murmured, as if she could hear him.

His thumb traced her face on the photograph.

“Dekho na,” he whispered, eyes burning.

“Aaj bhi tumse baat kar raha hoon… aur tum aaj bhi sun nahi rahi.”

He swallowed painfully.

“Mujhe pata tha,” he said softly.

“Har mohabbat ko mukammal anjaam nahi milta.”

A pause.

“But ye bhi toh sach hai na,” his voice broke,

“ki har adhoori mohabbat… kisi ek ko poori tarah tod deti hai.”

He gasped, chest heaving.

“Tum yaad nahi karti… aur main bhool hi nahi paaya.”

“Kya ajeeb insaaf hai, na?”

A tear finally escaped—

mixing with blood, staining the road red.

His vision tunneled.

Sounds faded.

Only her face remained.

“Sun…,” he whispered urgently,

“agar kahin… kahin bhi… thoda sa bhi yaad ho…”

His breath hitched.

“Toh jaan lena…

main tumse shikayat ke saath nahi ja raha.”

He smiled again—

that soft, devastating smile.

“Maine tumse mohabbat ki thi…

koi hisaab nahi rakha.”

A long breath.

“Aur mohabbat…

kabhi wapas kuch maangti bhi nahi.”

His fingers loosened.

The photograph slipped onto his chest.

“Bas ek baar aur…,” he murmured,

“aise hi dekhne do.”

His eyes captured her face—

every line, every curve, every ghost of love—

—and then gently closed.

Forever.