Madaleine sat with her head in the pool, her swimsuit clinging to each part of her podgy body, her blond hair freelancing underneath her, almost as if it was a mermaid’s tail, sparkling underneath the summer sky.
The star that she held within her hand had started to burn, but she didn’t mind too much. She’d stole it: it was a predator of the night, a nocturnal jewel. It kept her awake and hurt her brain. So, like anyone would, she thieved it from her sight. It reminded of him too much, those bright fucking eyes, sometimes so bright she wasn’t sure whether she was looking straight into the sun or irises when she looked into them. Which, of course, wasn’t very often. She was never one for eye contact.
He knew that.
She promised that she’d bring him back the star, one day. “The star that makes your eyes sparkle,” she said, “That’s your gift.” He refused to take it, and so he ran away. He thought she was something hopeless; she had every faith in him. She hadn’t believed in religion until the star touched her outstretched palm, is what she told him. He was a realist, she was a romantic. They could never fit, he said. They don’t fit.
Madaleine, her head in the skies, drove aimlessly. The summer sunset had crashed and burned into the horizon just as her heart did, and all was left was the empty void of the black sky. The star she still held had burned a hole in the palm of her hand, now, and it ached. She stopped the vehicle and stared at the world above her. The space, the darkness, the way she felt inside. She opened her right hand and let the star go. It floated into the night and became the only star in that otherwise vacant sky.
Maybe, just maybe, he’ll see it too, and remember the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her.