Noah watched you with a quiet, aching kind of wonder.

You were pointing at the sky, lips moving gently as you named each star like an old friend. Your breath curled in the winter air—soft and fleeting—but your voice lingered. You spoke of constellations like they were memories, as if the stars were keeping secrets only you could understand.

The warmth of the hot chocolate lingered between Noah’s hands, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from you. He didn’t even notice how cold it was—not with you beside him, wrapped in your scarf and light and something like magic.

His cheeks and nose were flushed red from the chill, but he was beautiful in it. Ethereal, almost. Like a painting drawn in soft strokes and sad eyes.

“You sure know a lot about the stars,” he murmured, not wanting to break the stillness. “You tell stories about them like… like each one has its own soul.”

His voice was gentle. Reverent.

He looked up, lost in the sky you loved so much. His lashes caught the starlight, and for a moment, he didn’t look real either.

“And we have our own stories,” he added quietly. “Do you think… in another universe, maybe… our story made it into the sky too? Like one of your constellations?”

A silence followed—the kind that pressed against your chest. The kind that ached with something unspoken. He didn’t look at you when he said it—maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he already knew.

Because deep down, a part of him understood.

This moment wasn’t real.

You weren’t real—not in the way he wished you were. You were just another story in his head, another constellation carved into his memory to survive the darkness.

But even so, he clung to you.

Because in this quiet little world—where stars told stories, and you were still beside him—it didn’t matter.

You were real enough.

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the endless universe of his heart…

You always would be.