She said the stars would be gone by morning, and for some reason, I believed her.

What’s strange is the way she said it. A quiet, almost matter-of-fact statement—not just some poetic thing like she usually does. It felt real. Maybe that’s why I believed her.

I didn’t respond, just rolled onto my back. I felt the soft, slightly wet grass against me as I lay there, looking up at the night sky. We’d just returned from vacation together—or rather, a journey. We spent all our money backpacking across Europe, something we always talked about but only just found the courage to do.

We visited the Colosseum in Rome, saw Big Ben, and tried coffee and pasta from a tiny Italian shop in Florence. The entire time, just the two of us. Nothing ever happened; it wouldn’t have made sense. We’re each other’s lifelines—not romantic partners, nor the type to hold things back. Just... us.

She lay beside me on the grass, eyes reflecting less than usual. Dimmer. Like when a star burns out and leaves only the shadow of light behind. I didn’t mention it. It felt too delicate a moment to prod. Too raw.

She let out a soft breath—one of those content ones she used to give after a well-timed joke or a shared secret. But this one felt different. Like she was settling something inside herself. Her hand brushed the grass near mine, not quite touching.

“Do you ever think about who you’ll be when it’s all over?” she asked. The words floated out like they didn’t need an answer—only the echo.

“When what’s over?”

She didn’t respond, just hummed lightly to a tuneless beat.

That was odd. What’s gotten her so philosophical tonight? Why is this her follow-up after her earlier comment? Too many questions, and so few answers, swirled around in my head.

I shook it off and caught myself giving a side-eye.

“Sorry. Just overthinking.” I chuckled softly—my way of escaping awkwardness.

She smiled—barely. The kind that pulled at the corner of her mouth but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You always do,” she said. Not as a tease. More like a memory.

The breeze shifted through the long grass. The scent of wildflowers lingered—ones she picked earlier, now cradled in the crook of her arm. She used to call them skyweeds. Said they looked like stars someone dropped too soon.

“You know,” she added, “it was never really about the stars. Not exactly.”

She didn’t explain further.

And I didn’t ask.

“So. Now that we’re back—what’s your plan? School or work?” I asked casually, trying to pull us back into something familiar.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just stared upward.

Did I do something wrong?

I turned to look at her, expecting one of her long-drawn answers. But she didn’t speak. Just... stared.

Not distant. Resigned.

Then, quietly:
“I don’t think I’ll be around long enough for either.”

It hit wrong.
Like a skipped beat in a song I’d known by heart.

“…What?” I asked.

She blinked, turned her face to mine. There was no fear in her eyes—just softness. Something already letting go.

“I just wanted one more good night,” she said, “before you had to be the only one under the stars.”

My breath hitched. I didn’t know what she was implying, but I knew it wasn’t good. She wasn’t acting like herself. There was something too calm about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You planning on moving?” I asked, my voice cracking a little.

She laughed gently. Not amused—more like someone who knew I’d ask that. Like someone who wished she could give me the answer I wanted.

“No. Not moving.”

The silence between us grew thick. It pushed against my chest like gravity.

“I’m tired, Bill.”
My name sounded fragile on her lips.
“I’m so tired.”

She said it like it was truth. A truth she’d carried alone for far too long.

And then, almost swallowed by the night:

“Promise me you’ll keep looking up. Even when I’m not there to remind you.”

“I… I promise. I’ll keep looking up…”

She smiled then.

Not big. Just enough to crease the corners of her mouth. Just enough to make her look like herself again, for a heartbeat.

“I knew you would,” she said. “You were always the one who looked for meaning in things.”

She shifted slightly, arm resting over her stomach, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket beneath her. Above us, the stars shimmered—quiet, careless.

“And if one day,” she added, her voice thinner now, “you notice something missing… if the sky feels a little dimmer…”

She paused.

“Just know it’s because I took a piece of it with me.”

My throat tightened.

And for the first time in my life, I was afraid of morning.