Constellations
Lily North
We giggle like school children as we run, sweaty hands clasped, up the hill. The only light comes from the stark bulbs in the parking lot behind us, and the moon shining like a beacon above us. And the millions and millions of stars. We’re heaving by the time we reach the top, but still we run, heads craned skyward, bare feet tripping through dewy grass. We look at each other, our features blurred in the dark, the outline of grins painted on our faces. There’s a spot at the tippy top of the hill, a perfect spot to lay down, to find each other. We pull each other to the ground, our laughs echoing to the stars.
Our ship had been in production for months. Our plan in the works for years. Space travel studied for centuries. All our lives came down to this single moment. The countdown. The rumbling cockpit. The screaming flames that sent us up, up, away. The journey would take us years. It was a terrifying mission, but one we must take on. Our duty. Our sacrifice.
With our hands still intertwined, we huddle together on the damp ground, no worries in the world, and we look up. We talk about the things we dare not speak to earth while we trace constellations – Orion’s Belt, the Swan, the Big Dipper – that were worlds away, the light from them centuries old. The universe is so big, we remark. And we are so small. But nothing feels small on that hill, not our cheek-aching grins, not our whispered words, not the feel of our bodies pressed together. The universe might be big, but we are the center of it.
The days in the ship were long, boring. We calibrated machines. We checked fuel levels. We milled about when we could. Lightspeed travel was relatively fast, but it was hardly easy. It had taken generations to develop, the effect on our bodies still vague and unknown. But it didn’t matter, not for this mission. We kept the shades down to shield out the pure blinding light, and we focused. We slept, we woke up, we calibrated machines, we checked fuel levels. Crossed another day off the calendar. We were trained for this. This was all we were.
With a gleeful squeal, we point to a shooting star. Visually, it’s not the most impressive sight, just a half second streak of light, but it’s enough to make us pause in wonder, turn to find the stars in each other’s eyes, and press our lips together for the first time. Hands wrapped in hair, around necks, caressing chins, finding each other in the dark, memorizing to appreciate each other in the light.
We were only hours away from our destination now. We sent a ping back home days before, a final update, a final goodbye. Hands clasped together, we prayed to our gods, to our people. Earth had overstayed its welcome. It was a rotting bomb, and time was ticking fast. We put our heads down. We checked our explosives one last time. We strapped into our seats, and in silence, we waited.
It feels like hours had passed on that hill. We breathe into each other, bodies in sync, tracing shapes, the constellations once trapped in the sky now forged into skin. Our eyes are heavy, the night weighing on us, and suddenly, the sky begins the brighten. The sun begins to rise over the horizon. We stretch, and yawn, and check our phones, wondering how time escaped us. We freeze. It’s two in the morning. We sit up, easy smiles replaced by thoughtful frowns. Perhaps it’s only a car pulling into the parking lot, another couple with a flashlight, but no, there! A bright star in the sky, burning just right of the moon. We could have sworn it wasn’t there before, but we were entranced with each other most of the night, and human senses are easily fooled. We shrug it off, relish in the sharpening of each other’s features in the warm, glowing light, beauty made ethereal.
The ship came to a halt as we slowed from lightspeed. The shades came up, revealing Earth in all its demented beauty. Blues and greens, swirling white clouds, diseased and polluted cities, blood spilled in foreign lands. Such a puny, selfish, broken planet. A mistake. We pushed the throttle, using up the last of our fuel in our final descent. Everything became so clear, so easy.
As the minutes pass, we begin to realize the star was getting bigger and brighter. Bigger than the moon, brighter than the sun. We stand up, squinting, our shadows stretching like ghosts behind us. I let go of your hand, my heart beginning to race. Your eyes are wide, but mine are wider, and I look around frantically for my phone. I look through the news, through Twitter, desperately, my hands shaking. The twinkling constellations are choked out by the strange star. You begin to back away from me. And then, my phone buzzes. Warning. Incoming unidentified intergalactic object. Impact estimated three minutes. Take cover. I drop my phone. You begin to run, and I have no choice but to follow.
The cockpit shook and rattled against the atmosphere, fire dancing outside the windows. Our target was nowhere specific, just solid ground in the dark. Our hands choked the steering wheels as Earth grew, filling our windshield. We set the explosives. We took our final breaths, looked at each other one last time. Nodded. Smiled. Braced for the end, for the beginning.
The asphalt is rough against my bare feet, but I sprint towards the car with you while the star chases after us, its light blinding now, filling my field of vision. I scream your name, but you don’t slow down, don’t even look behind you, and I’m crying, tears tracing constellations down my cheeks. There is no one else around. It’s just you, and it’s just me, and the star falling from the sky, bringing the whole world down with it. My breaths are shaky as I reach the car, but you are focused, hands tight around the steering wheel, impatiently waiting for me to get in. The second the door closes, you speed off, towards nowhere specific, just away. In the rearview mirror, Earth is nothing more than pure white light, and my lips tremble and my eyes flood as I look over at you for the last time, your features sharp, stark, gaunt, and the end is nothing but heat, and pain, and silence.