When I was younger, my parents took us on a 10-hour-long road trip to another city. Before we left, we folded the car seats, so that the area behind the driver’s seat was flat, allowing us all to lie down comfortably enough (I only had two brothers at the time!). My brothers and I brought our blankets and pillows with us in preparation for the boredom, and, in part, sleepiness, we were bound to face.
I don’t remember how it started or why, but some time midway through the journey, my brothers ganged up on me, as they usually did.
“You’re such a girl,” one of them said.
“Yeah, you can’t even punch properly,” the other chipped in, both ignoring my mother’s orders for them to “stop it!”
They went on; and being, indeed, a “girl” and the youngest, no less, I submitted to their teasing and started to cry quietly under my blanket. Later, as my eldest brother’s loud snoring filled the car and the other one’s soft breathing calmed it slightly, I realised it was probably safe for me to leave my sanctuary for a little while. My head was positioned right under the window so when I slowly lowered the blanket down and my eyes peeked out from it, I was in awe of the sight flashing above me. The sky, a beautiful dark-blue blanket, was bedazzled with hundreds and hundreds of tiny little sparkly pieces of glitter, sprinkled across it. They were infinite and phenomenal and never stopped, no matter how long I stared up at them. It was the first time I had ever seen a view so beautiful.
Those never-ending lights way up above me in the universe made me feel so small, made my problems seem irrelevant. They had bigger problems. What if they were too cramped up together and weren’t comfortable? What if they bumped into each other? What if they lost their shine? They didn’t seem to mind their problems, though, and kept on shining brighter than ever, looking down at me, meeting my adoring gaze.
Even though in retrospect it feels like I’d looked out at the glittery sky for ages, I know it can’t really have been for more than a minute or two. The view hypnotised me and sleep tickled my eyes, so I closed them with a silent promise to myself that when I wake up, I would watch the stars some more and maybe even give each one a name.
When I woke up though, there was nothing but the sun, drowning the world in heat and sunshine when I least wanted it. My stars had disappeared.
From that day on, it has become a dream of mine to see that dazzling sight again. Many times have I sneaked up to the roof in the middle of the night and switched all the lights off, despite my silly fear of darkness. Then I would turn my gaze towards the heavens, in hope of seeing the stars illuminate my world in their splendour once more. I never did see them, though.
During that road trip, my six year-old self saw friends in those tiny dots of light; they were there to cheer me up, to tell me I was going to be okay, even though I had horrible brothers. They engulfed me in their brightness and let me sleep under their watch, and I never forgot that.
A week ago, we set out on the same journey. I was thrilled that we started moving some time during late afternoon, because it meant that by nightfall, we would be well away from the city’s artificial, too-bright lights, enough to espy the stars. I slept as soon as we left and when I opened my eyes, my breath caught in anticipation, as I realised the world was dark around me. I turned my head to look through the window at my side of the car, but all I saw was a moon too thin to cast any proper light, as if aged by loneliness and grief… and it made me wonder if it yearns for the stars as much as I do.
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