The best thing about memory is that it’s never truly accurate.

Your image is nothing less than a beautiful ghost, your voice a phantom whisper on the wind as I stand alone.

Desolate.

But no one ever thinks about what it’s like to live in the shadow of the sun.

To stand in the timeless cosmos and gaze into a universe without light. To feel the cold seep into your very bones, folding you further into the darkness until you’re lost, hopeless.

And yet, stardust was in my eyes. You bared your teeth to the world and smiled—not in triumph, but in bitterness. The mere fact of your existence was like heavenly retribution, a statement of defiance to a cruel and uncaring world.

And as you fell, you threw laughter to the wind.

There was always something beautiful to be told of falling—the abject feeling of freedom as you crash from the sky—a dying star, reborn into something new.

A supernova, waiting to be unleashed upon your new world.

And to you, flying was just like falling, never mind the destination. Still, the beauty lingers and captivates us all.

Now you are just a falling star, your word a beautiful lie that no one will ever truly know.

But I’ve always wanted to watch the eclipse with my own eyes.