The wind blew softly, the sky a haze of purple and blue. Miles sat behind the steering wheel of his car, phone clutched tightly in his shaking hands, typing out a messy draft of "I'm sorry" and "I'm trying".

The air smelled like cigarette smoke and expensive cologne, one he knew you loved. His mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, trying, and failing, to think of anything to say. He knew he hasn't been the best boyfriend, constantly ignoring your worried texts and calls, returning home only a few times a week.

He was trying his best, yet the weight of everything kept him in in the car every evening, forcing him to pull out of the driveway and go anywhere else but not home.

After what seemed like eternity, you were finally active.

He deleted the paragraph he was writing, instead typing out a simple "Look at the stars tonight. All of them have a reason."

He just hoped you wouldn't hate him.