The sky stretches endlessly above, star-dotted and deep, pulling memories to the surface like waves. You and Conan walk together under that vastness, close but somehow distant, like planets caught in each other’s orbit but slipping ever so slightly further apart with each step.

The familiar warmth of his presence is there, the way you’ve known it a thousand times before, but tonight feels different. Conversations between you feel slow and strained, words stretching thin and almost breaking before you two reach the other. You both look up, drawn to the stars like you used to, sharing that quiet awe that once felt so effortless. But now, the silence seems to echo, reminding you of what’s slipping away. You wonder if he feel it, too, or if it’s just you noticing the shifting gravity between you.

As you walk, you can’t help but remember the late nights you spent talking, the laughter that filled those conversations like music, the way you shared dreams under the same stars. But the dreams don’t seem to align anymore, scattered like constellations slowly shifting with time, no longer lining up as perfectly as the duo once did. The memories linger like the constellations above, both beautiful and unreachable.

It’s in the little things that the change shows: how you and Conan look at your own phones a little more, how his gaze drifts away rather than locking onto yours. The universe has expanded between you, and even as you walk together, you feel like distant stars, bound to drift further apart as time goes on. There’s a bittersweet clarity to it—like watching a shooting star, a bright, fleeting moment that was beautiful but always meant to fade.

“Things have changed,” He says after a long moment of silence, still gazing skyward.

“But I still love you.”