The night knows all his secrets.

Only in the middle of the night, in the presence of an ever-expanding and accepting sky, would he allow himself to lay in bed and pine for her.

~ ~ ~

Kayama Nemuri was a breathtaking night sky: cloudless and ever-expanding and shimmering with light. Her hair was the sky, infinite and wine-dark. Her eyes were Neptune, round and blue. Her laughter was stardust, fragments that he cupped in his palms like birdseed. A glorious supernova that illuminates all darkness in his soul.

And like a star, he fell for her.

Her beauty and kindness. Her wit and humor, Her strength and boldness. The light of her blinded him. He wanted to reach out and take her hand.

But, now...

Now, the light has been snuffed out. The stars. The moon. Neptune. All of it. The sky is wine-dark and infinite, and it is empty. A gluttonus blackhole that eliminates any hope in his soul. The stardust is gone, slipped through his grasp like sand. There is no light. Only darkness. She is gone. And he is alone. 

He searches for her, in the dark. On his commute. In classrooms. In gardens. In museums. In his apartment. A fruitless, tragic effort. He’s a blockhead, she’d have said. 

The light of her heart split like the shard from a shooting star and struck his eyes; he couldn’t look away and it tore through him. 

And now, he is only blind. And now, he has only darkness.  And now, he can only scream in pain.

~ ~ ~

Only in the dead of the night – in the presence of an endlessly empty and apathetic sky – would he allow himself to lay in bed and mourn for her.

The night knows all his secrets.