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She seems to believe something different. She looks at a dead star and sees the beginning of something. And I want to reply, but Mireya only speaks like this when we’re on top of the cliff, alone, and the sky is dark. So I’d rather hear everything before saying anything.

“Talk to me,” I whisper.

She laughs sadly, taking a long breath in and looks at me.

“When I was a kid, I was scared to try to reach the stars,” she says. “They felt impossible. Like something you could only look at and never touch. But every time I made a wish and threw that star paper up, I felt like I could reach them for a second.”

She looks down at her hands again, brushing her fingers against her scars gently. And I want to reach out and touch them myself. “We’re all made of stardust anyway,” she whispers softly.

And there it is. That impossible thing about her. She says things like that and doesn’t seem to realize what they do to me. Despite everything she has been through, she has somehow kept the part of herself that believes the universe is still capable of giving something back.

I have met plenty of people who survived.

Survival is common, but hope is rarer.

Maybe that is what draws my attention every time she speaks.

Just after that she gets up, brushing the sand from her clothes, and then turns toward me, offering me her hand. For a moment, I just look at it.

I have spent years learning how to read situations before they happen. How to recognize risks. How to understand consequences before anyone else notices them. And I know immediately that this is dangerous. The way I feel when I am around her.

I take her hand anyway, my fingers barely touch hers before she starts walking, but the contact is enough to make me aware of myself in a way I haven’t been in years. The warmth of her skin. The softness of her grip. The fact that something so insignificant can feel like something I will remember.

I let go before I have to question why.

We walk along the shore until the cliffs rise around us and the waves crash against the rocks below.

“Give me your keys.”

I hand them to her without asking as she kneels beside one of the rocks and begins carving into the surface. When she turns back toward me, she is smiling.

We were here.

A small lily sits beside the words. Still missing a petal.

Next to it is another engraving. Older and worn down by years of weather. The writing is messy but it’s readable.

To purgatory and back.

I smile despite myself. “Is it new?”

Her fingers brush over the older letters as if remembering the exact moment this happened, then she replies, “Hayzel and I did this when we were younger.” She looks at the one she just carved, then back at me. The exhaustion disappears from her gaze, replaced by nostalgia. So much of it.

“Now we have our own,” she whispers.

When she stands, I realize too late how close she is. The change in her breathing. The way her expression shifts when she becomes aware of the same thing. The space between us is small. And suddenly I am reminded of every reason it needs to stay that way.

My hands remain at my sides, because I know myself. I know exactly what would happen if I allowed myself to forget who I am supposed to be.

“A secret?” I ask quietly.

Her eyes find mine. They’re a terrifying shade of blue because they make drowning look gentle and I wouldn’t mind the pain of it. I’d let her trap me in them, and that scares me. Everything does when she’s involved.

Her. This. Us.

And maybe she sees the same thing in me. Maybe that is what makes this so difficult. Not wanting someone passionately, but being known, being seen completely.

“A secret,” she repeats in the softest voice.