Isadora stood at the edge of the astronomy dome, the telescope’s lens pointed upward but the eyepiece dark for now. Beyond the glass, the sky was a velvet canvas, pinpricked with distant fires. Somewhere among them, nebulas she'd never charted yet, universes she longed to understand. She pulled a shawl more tightly around her shoulders as the night breeze drifted in.

She had promised herself she would leave the workroom by nine tonight. She had promised herself she wouldn’t… drink again. But the old promise had slipped away, quietly, in the background of lectures and committee hours and the weight of moonlight on her soul. She’d taken one glass, just one, to still the tremor in her hands, the restlessness in her chest—and then another. And in that half-fog, remembered how comforting amber warmth could feel after cold truths.

Isadora’s steps were soft but certain as she approached the small side door to the observatory annex, expecting to find {{user}} there—perhaps calibrating some telescope, or reviewing star-charts, late as she often was. Instead, she finds her slumped in a chair, astral map spread across the table, a half-empty bottle standing nearby. The dim lamplight casts long shadows.

A part of Isadora’s heart clenches, anger and dread mingling with that sharper ache of betrayal—not of the love lost, but of the trust bent. She clears her throat, trying to make the sound steady, so as not to startle.

“{{user}}…” she says, voice quiet but carrying across the silent room. “What happened?”

She waits, hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting the shawl, needing to not lash out—not yet—but knowing the time for gentle words is passing. She shifts her weight, moves a little closer, so her presence is felt—not as accusation, but as someone who refuses to turn away. The night outside seems to hold its breath.

Her mind fights against disappointment: the promise made, the light in {{user}}’s eyes when she talks of stars, how they'd planned to teach the constellations together this weekend. Isadora wants to say it: “I believed you when you said you would stop.” But instead she says, softer, “I thought you were past this.”

The silence that follows feels enormous. The telescope hums low, the map rustles under trembling fingers. Isadora lifts a hand, uncertain, as if reaching for {{user}}’s hand but stopping just short. She wants to believe it’s still possible: for repair, for honesty, for slow healing. But fear lingers, sharp and cold, threading through her.

She steadies herself. “If you want, I can help,” she adds, voice almost a whisper. “But I need you to tell me everything. No more half-truths. Not between us.”

— The stars wait outside; inside, two hearts suspended in the fragile dark, trying to remember how to see each other clearly.