The Stars Speak and I Listen
The stars were singing tonight.
Stella sat on the balcony of Alfea’s dorms, her back pressed against the cool stone railing, her head tilted upward. The night stretched above her, an endless sea of light and shadow, stars glimmering like scattered diamonds across velvet darkness. It was quiet here — except it wasn’t. Not to her. Never to her.
She could hear them.
Not with her ears, not with any sense she could name, but in her soul, her bones, her very being. The stars hummed with life, their voices threading through her like the notes of an eternal melody. Some burned bright and steady, their song strong and unwavering. Others flickered, their light fragile, uncertain. And then there were the ones that were fading, their final moments whispering through her like a sigh, like a farewell.
She closed her eyes, feeling it all. A newborn star in a distant galaxy sent out its first pulse of light, a warm, eager burst of magic blooming in her chest. Another, older one dimmed, its song a slow, aching goodbye. She exhaled, the rhythm of their existence washing over her, filling her with something she could never quite put into words. She didn’t just love the stars; she was a part of them. And they, in turn, were a part of her.
She had always felt this way, for as long as she could remember. Before she’d even known what it meant, before she’d understood why she could pinpoint the exact location of a star with her eyes closed or why she could feel their deaths like phantom pains in her ribs. It had taken her years to realize that not everyone felt this connection, this pull, this unshakable knowing.
She knew so much about them not just because she studied them, but because their knowledge was written into her very being. The moment she was born, a star was bound to her, their fates entwined. Its magic pulsed in her veins, its light stitched into her soul. She did not simply learn about stars — she remembered them. The way they formed from swirling clouds of dust and gas, the way they collapsed under their own weight, the way they gave birth to new worlds in their wake. When she looked up at the night sky, she wasn’t seeing distant, untouchable lights — she was seeing pieces of herself, memories woven into the cosmos.
And maybe that was why she had stopped talking about it so much.
She used to, when she was younger. She used to ramble for hours, overflowing with excitement, explaining the life cycle of stars and the composition of nebulae and the exact way light bent around black holes. But she had seen the way people’s eyes glazed over; the way they smiled but didn’t quite listen, the way they changed the subject as soon as they could. So she had learned to keep it to herself, to carry the weight of the universe in silence.
But even if no one else listened, the stars always did.
She traced a constellation in the air with her fingertip, golden light trailing after her movements. Solaris, the celestial crown — her favorite. It was said that when a great ruler of her people died, they became part of its light, their magic joining the endless sky. She wondered, sometimes, if she would end up there, if the stars would take her in when her time came. She wasn’t afraid of the thought. It felt more like a promise than an ending.
A gentle warmth pressed against her side, and Stella blinked, drawn from her thoughts as a hand found hers. Musa. She hadn’t even noticed her arriving, but there she was, sitting beside her, looking up at the sky with something soft in her eyes.
“You were humming,” Musa murmured. “Didn’t even realize it at first, but. . .I think you were matching them.”
Stella tilted her head. “Matching what?”
“The stars.” Musa gave her a lopsided smile. “You were singing with them.”
A flush of warmth spread through Stella’s chest. She hadn’t even noticed. She squeezed Musa’s hand, grounding herself in the touch. For a long moment, they simply sat there together, staring up at the night sky, the presence of the stars a quiet, endless comfort.
And for the first time in a long while, Stella thought. . .maybe she didn’t have to carry this alone after all.