“Cassiopeia.” Her lips curve. She points again. “Looks like a ‘W’ when it’s upright. My mom used to say it was a queen’s crown.”
“Your mom was into astronomy?”
“She was into everything.” Her smile softens. “She was a writer.”
A breeze lifts a strand of her hair, brushing it across her cheek. I reach out, tuck it behind her ear, feel her skin. I want to hold this exact second like it’s sacred. Like it’s breakable.
“Tell me more about your parents,” I say, voice quieter than I meant it.
The way her eyes soften, the way her mouth trembles, I know she'strying to hold the tears in. It hits me low. No one’s asked her that in a long time. Or maybe… ever.
And now that I’ve asked, I’m terrified of the answer.
But I want it anyway. I want all of it. All of her.
“My mom believed the stars were ancient messages, waiting to be heard. She’d take me outside when I couldn’t sleep, wrap me in a blanket, and we’d just… sit. She said magic wasn’t something you had to chase. It was already there.”
I don’t speak. I won’t break this.
“My dad was the opposite,” she adds, a small laugh slipping through. “He liked things grounded. A guy who balanced the checkbook for fun. Who measured the grass before mowing it.”
She’s laughing, but my chest aches.
“They balanced each other,” she mutters. “She made everything feel infinite. He made sure we didn’t float away.”
Rorie pauses. The quiet settles again.
“My dad always said, ‘If you ever get lost, look for the North Star. You need a North and an Anchor. A guide and a tether. Something to follow. Something to hold onto.’ Like I told you the other night.”
I interlace our fingers as she continues, her voice barely a breath. Her eyes shimmer. Does she knows how much they sparkle when she talks about them?
“Their love didn’t make sense on paper. Total opposites. He was buying a gift for his boss at a bookstore he never went to, and she was hiding from a blind date. They ran into each other. Like literally. And to top it off, it happened in the romance section.” Another laugh escapes. “She made chaos beautiful. He made spreadsheets for fun.”
She twists toward me then, and the stars replace that shimmer in her eyes. “But the universe kept putting them in each other’s way, like it refused to let them miss.”
God.
She smiles like she’s telling me a fairytale, but I feel the weight beneath every word. She’s trusting me with the most fragile parts of her. And I’m truly honored.
“Now they’re both stars,” she whispers. “That’s how I like to think of it. They were kind of… cosmic.”
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t break.
But I see the pain, carved into her. The way she blinks is a little slower.
I cup her face. No words. Just touch. Just truth.
“I used to think they were the only real thing I’d ever get to witness. Now I try to not forget what it felt like to be loved like that.”
My throat goes tight. I want to give her that. Desperately.
A single tear slips down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, gently sweep it away then lean in and kiss the place where it fell. Soft. Careful. A vow I haven’t spoken yet.
We fall into easy stories after that. I tell her about the lake house summers. The cousin who tried to flirt with a lifeguard using a drone. She tells me about getting stuck in an elevator with a German art critic and a tray of chicken tikka masala. We laugh until our stomachs hurt, until the night swells quiet around us.
The stars blink overhead and her body shifts toward mine, snuggling closer. Her leg tangle with mine. Her head rests against my chest. My arm curves around her. She was made to fit there.
She lets out a sleepy sigh. “I don’t want this to end.”
