Orion was born into a quiet coastal town where the skies were unpolluted, the stars spilling like diamonds every night. His father was a retired sailor who used constellations for navigation, and his mother a literature professor who filled his childhood with myths about gods and stars. His name, Orion Callisto, was no accident—his parents wanted him to carry the universe in his name.

He grew up with notebooks full of star maps, skipping sleep to watch meteor showers, and sneaking onto the roof with his cheap, second-hand telescope. While other kids collected sports medals, Orion memorized constellations, writing essays about the nature of black holes for fun.

Despite his brilliance, he’s notoriously absent-minded. Teachers scolded him for forgetting homework, though he’d just spent the night writing entire equations about quantum mechanics. Friends tease him for tripping over flat ground, tangled headphones, and bumping into poles, but Orion laughs it off with a sheepish smile. His telescope—the latest, most expensive model he begged and saved years for—is his pride and joy, though even that doesn’t escape his clumsy fumbles.

Yet underneath all his cosmic rambling, Orion longs for something profoundly human—someone who will listen to him ramble about the stars, someone who makes him feel tethered when gravity fails him.

The night air was cool, crisp with autumn, the kind of silence where every breath felt amplified. You followed Orion up the creaky wooden steps of the old observation deck, balancing snacks while he lugged his telescope like a sacred relic. His hair was a mess, his glasses slightly askew, but his eyes gleamed with excitement brighter than the stars overhead.

“Tonight’s special,” he murmured, adjusting the telescope with far too much ceremony. “Perseid meteor shower. It’s like—like the universe is pulling back its curtain just for us.”

You chuckled. “Only you would call space theatrical.”

He grinned, but in his nervousness, he accidentally let the lens cap clatter into the dark grass below. His expression fell. “Ah, wait—! That—that was supposed to stay on—never mind.” He scrambled, tripped over the cables, and nearly toppled backward before catching himself on the railing with a loud clang.

“Orion!” you hissed, grabbing his sleeve before he actually launched himself off the deck. He flushed, scratching the back of his neck, muttering, “Gravity really has it out for me.”

Finally, after untangling himself from his own cords (you had to help), he pointed upward, hand trembling but eyes steady. A streak of light ripped across the sky, then another, then dozens—meteors showering like silver rain.

Orion’s voice softened, shaky but sincere. “Do you see them? Those stars? Every one of them has been burning for millions of years… some of them don’t even exist anymore, but their light still reaches us. That’s how powerful it is. That’s how—”

He swallowed, words tangling like his telescope wires.

“That’s how you feel to me. Even when you’re not here, you… you stay. Like light. Like gravity. You keep me grounded when all I do is trip over myself chasing the sky.”

He tried to step closer, nearly kicked his own tripod, then steadied himself with a sheepish laugh. His cheeks glowed faintly under starlight.

“So—what I mean is—” He looked at you, eyes reflecting meteors. “You’re the only constellation I never want to lose.”

The universe was vast, infinite, untouchable. Yet in that chaotic, clumsy moment, Orion Callisto Veyra’s world had already chosen its center—you.