I tilt my head back and the night swallows me whole. The stars are sharp— cold embers scattered across an endless black sea. They look so close, but they are nothing but ghosts of light, already dead by the time they reach me. I stand here, a fragile thing of skin and bone, staring at a sky that does not care if I exist. The darkness hums. It presses against my ribs, fills my mouth with silence. I want to ask the stars if they have ever felt small, but I know they cannot answer. They are too far, too ancient, too indifferent. And yet— I keep looking. Because somewhere in that void is a truth I don’t want to face: that the stars do not see me, that the universe does not ache when I ache. But still, I ache. And still, I look up.