He turned out the light and a hundred or so glow-in-the-dark stars in the ceiling subtly lit his room, emanating a soft, greenish light. In the darkness, I smiled, because I know he wanted me to see this. I scanned the sky— the ceiling— looking for the meteor shower he’d promised me earlier that we’d watch together. We lied there side by side in the dark, silent, as if waiting for the shooting stars, those fleeting flash amid the myriad of dots. But of course, they never came.
“There’s one!” I said, pointlessly pointing to a certain patch in our artificial night sky. “There’s another one!” He laughed. For a moment, I wanted to believe it’s true. I wanted to believe that nothing went wrong between us. But I knew better now. We were no longer those same people from the past. We broke and we fell apart, our night sky exploding.
“I made this for you.” He said.
I did not say anything. We just laid there in the darkness, holding each other until he fell asleep, and I once again allowed myself to cry silently, for the chances I didn’t take, the choices I didn’t make, for the love that I lost.
“I’ve missed you,” I said in a broken whisper, and when I thought that he’s already asleep, he stirred. He searched for my face in the darkness, and planted a kiss on my forehead, on my nose. I snuggled closer to him, pretending that in that moment, the stars in the ceiling weren’t tearing me apart, that I wasn’t breaking apart, that I wasn’t aching with the thought that I cannot have him again.