I wasn't finished loving her

He wrote letters to a woman who was lost in a place even memory could not map.
Every word, every ink-stained confession, every night spent staring at a name that would never answer back - it was devotion. It was grief. It was the only thing keeping him together.

Until him.

The blue-skinned chaos who should've been nothing but an irritation. A mistake. A distraction he never asked for.
But chaos doesn't ask for permission.
It arrives. It stays. It laughs when it shouldn't.
And somehow... it feels like warmth in a life that forgot what that was.

He still belongs to her memory.
He still writes to a silence that will never respond.

So why does his heart react every time the wrong person sits too close?