The Space Between Us

Note to self: 

don't read retreat letters unless you want to get all metaphorical or be an astronomer.

This is for you, Generosity.

When I was a junior, I learned that stars were formed when interstellar clouds would get too dense and collapse. The process sounded so bland for the bright jewels that hung above our heads. And I guess, that appealed to me because it reminded me of people.

We rise and fall- collapse- and get better.

When I was a senior, I noticed that we all were little stars stuck in this vast, dark world with no say, whatsoever, on where we wanted to be placed. Yes, we were scattered and I liked that. I liked our tension with one another, our diverse qualities. I liked the little patterns we created as we wove into one, huge constellation. Our diversity led us to collapse; yet we got better. Together.

When I sat down on my seat in the airplane, I thought that I would be able to see the stars more. I waited for night to come and I never thought to close my eyes and sleep. As I looked out my window, I saw black. There wasn’t a star in sight.

And on my first month, I stepped outside to look at the clouds. It was too sunny to have any around. I thought about them, how we spent lunches looking at the floating objects in the sky, waiting to be identified. There weren’t any stars that night either.

Last night, it was chilly- the good kind. The thing is, when you live in a city where the lights on the ground grow brighter as the night grows darker, you will never see the stars. Too much light pollution, too many people don’t care. And I realized that, I hated the city. I lay on my back, waiting for them to come out. They never do and I’ve never felt so alone.

So tonight, I didn’t bother. I did something worse. I looked at your letters.

I didn’t even know that I’ve been living here for half a year. I’ve never felt so lonely in my entire life. And I know that there are ways to keep in touch, but do we really touch? There are ways to remember, but tell me, are we not fading? The people here are not stars and if they were, they never shined. Too much light pollution, also, too many people never care.

I’m now on my bed that is filled with scattered letters. I touch each and every one because I know that a long time ago, your hands did the same. Every night, I leave the fairy lights above my bed open (and every morning I always get in trouble for it). I’ve learned that sometimes, we have to make our own stars to help us keep going.

I miss them, the stars. The private constellations woven from experiences, the secrets kept and thrown into space, and conversations that were sucked into the void. And though it’s evening in my horizon and yours would be day, I believe that a miracle could happen and, one day, let us meet again.