Beneath the veil of an endless, ink-black sky, she lies awake, her eyes tracing the stars—those distant, cold fires, twinkling with a cruel, indifferent beauty. She whispers his name into the vastness, as if the wind might carry it to him, though she knows it will never reach. The night wraps around her like a lover’s embrace, tender but cold, filled with longing, with regret that claws at her chest, raw and unrelenting.
His face is a shadow in the dark corners of her memory, flickering like the faintest starlight, always just out of reach. She cannot remember the sound of his laugh, though she swears it once filled the spaces between them like music. The warmth of his touch is a dream that slips from her grasp with every waking hour, leaving her to grasp at the fragments of what might have been, of what was. There are days when she cannot even remember the scent of his skin, and that hurts more than any wound.
Oh, how she wishes the world had paused, if only for a moment, long enough for her to reach out to him. She could have gone. She should have gone. The thought gnaws at her, a constant echo in her soul. But the silence of that day, the silence of that decision, lingers like a weight she cannot lift, heavier with every passing hour. She had waited, so foolishly, for the right time, and now he is lost to her, tucked away in someone else’s arms, in someone else’s world.
And yet, in this hollowed moment, she cannot help but be drawn to the memories, the fleeting whispers of their past. How his gaze once held her captive, how his voice, soft and deep, had drawn her in like a tide she had never known to fear. She feels the ache of it—this love, this never-love, that once bloomed and now withers in the shadows of what was never meant to be.
Tonight, like every other, she seeks the stars. She seeks the silence. For it is in that silence that she feels him most—his absence wrapped around her like a cloak she cannot shed. She wonders if, somewhere, somehow, he, too, feels the weight of this longing. If he ever looks up at the same stars and thinks of her, or if he has forgotten her face completely.
She drifts into reverie, each breath a soft lament for a love she cannot have, for a chance that slipped through her fingers like mist. How she wishes the heavens would grant her one more moment, one more touch, one more breath shared between them. But the stars, distant and cold, offer no answers. Only silence. Only the ache.
And so she lies beneath the endless night, lost in the echoes of a love that was never meant to last, a love that slipped away like a dream upon waking. Her heart, forever bound to a memory, beats with a quiet, relentless sorrow—waiting for a time that will never come.
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