It’s past midnight, and the city hums with a restless kind of loneliness—the kind that doesn’t sleep, just watches from windows and alleyways. Rain kissed the pavement earlier, and now everything reflects the glowing signs of life that carry on below like nothing ever breaks.

He doesn’t move much, just sits on the fire escape outside his apartment, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. The red ember burns slow, matching the ache in his chest.

He’s dressed in all black—always is. It’s not about fashion. It’s armor.

The sleeves of his coat are slightly damp from the mist in the air, and his knuckles sting from a fight he didn’t start but didn’t try hard enough to walk away from. It’s easier to bleed than to feel. That’s what he tells himself. Has told himself for years.

But tonight feels different.

Pinned against the metal railing of the fire escape, a note flutters slightly in the wind. He reads it again, even though the words are already carved into him:

“My darling, all I want is to be your moon and show you all the little stars of my heart.”

He doesn’t need to read the signature. He knows it’s from you.

You always had a way with words, even when he had none. He wonders how you managed to love someone like him—so heavy, so full of silence and storms. You made a home out of his shadows and found constellations in his scars.

But he was a coward. He pushed you away, thinking he was doing you a favor. Thinking it would hurt less if he disappeared on his own terms, rather than letting you watch him ruin everything like he always does.

He failed at that too.

Because you’re still here.

Not in body. But in every breath he takes. In every ghost of a laugh he remembers. In every damn sunrise that reminds him of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the future.

He flicks ash off the cigarette and watches it fall into the dark below. People come and go on the streets, lost in their own stories. Somewhere, a song plays from an apartment window. Something soft. Something about missing someone.

He closes his eyes.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Maybe people like him—people made of broken glass and silence—can still learn how to shine. Even if it’s just reflected light, like the moon you wanted him to be.

He rises slowly, putting out the cigarette on the cold steel railing, leaving a faint scar where the heat met metal. One more mark in a city already full of them.

He takes the note with him as he heads inside. The apartment still smells faintly of your perfume. The couch is still dented from the last time you curled up there, reading your favorite poetry out loud like it was a ritual meant just for him.

He opens the drawer where he hid every message you ever wrote. One by one, he lays them out on the table, trying to piece together the constellation of your heart.

Tomorrow, he’ll find you.

Not to beg. Not to explain.

Just to finally say what he should’ve said long ago:

“If you’re still willing to show me the stars… then I promise to never stop orbiting you.”