She was never meant to be seen. A fragment of moonlight hidden behind veils of dust, born in silence, raised among whispers that never reached the sky. And yet, fate — cruel and deliberate — placed her before him. He saw her not as a person, but as a commodity. A forbidden desire wrapped in innocence. The more he tried to look away, the deeper he fell into her orbit, like a moth surrendering to the flame that would devour it. There was no name to their relationship, no love between them, only gazes heavy enough to drown in. Her laughter was a hymn; his touch, a curse. And somewhere between the ache of longing and the sin of wanting, love took shape — not pure, not kind, but dark, consuming, eternal. The world would call it wrong. He would call it destiny. And she — she would call it her undoing. Because some stories aren’t written in ink or blood — they are etched like a forbidden sin, and remembered by the scars they leave behind.