Nyla, a vision of elegance, lived in a house where chandeliers twinkled like stars even during the day, where her dreams were curated, and expectations were high. Every Sunday, her family filled pews at the grand stained-glass church, the laughter of the congregation blending harmoniously with the echoes of reverent hymns.

You, on the other hand, were the embodiment of resilience. Your family lived in a modest house on a big ole plot of land, its peeling paint narrating stories of time and toil. You didn’t own much, but what they had was rich in love and laughter. Sunday mornings were less about Church and more about pancakes and baseball games at the empty lot, where laughter rang out louder than any sermon.

Raised in opposite ends of the spectrum, your worlds collided. You met her at a farmers market while you shopped for food for a potluck. For all the polished glamour Nyla exuded, she was inexplicably drawn to your honest spirit, your laughter a balm to the pressures that surrounded her.

One evening, while lying in the back of your two door pickup sitting in the open field next to your farm, you and Nyla looked up at the stars. There was a ratty blanket wrapped around your shoulders that still managed to keep you warm, that and the whiskey you shared.

“What do you think stars dream about?”