That night, we wrapped ourselves in a blanket that barely covered our legs and lay on the porch facing the lake. The stars were breathtaking—sharp, vivid, alive. You pointed them out like you'd memorized every one.
"That's not Orion," you said with a grin, tracing patterns with your fingertip in the air. "That one's you, and beside you—that's me."
I laughed. "What's the constellation called?"
"Forever," you whispered. "Because even when the stars fade, it'll still exist in our memory."
There was silence then not the kind that makes things awkward, but the kind that makes things whole. I reached for your hand and held it against my chest.
"I used to wish on stars," you said after a while, eyes still on the sky, "before I knew you."
"And now?"
"I don't have to."
Your words settled over me like warmth. In that quiet night, wrapped in starlight and each other, I realized something simple and vast: happiness wasn't loud. Sometimes, it was just two people lying under the sky, dreaming about nothing because everything they needed was already here.
When the moon reached its highest point and the world felt hushed, you fell asleep beside me, head resting on my shoulder. I didn't move. I just watched the stars a little longer, whispering a silent thank-you to the universe.