Beneath the Same Stars

Every night at 10:03 PM, I look up at the stars. I don’t need a reason anymore—it’s just what I do. It's a quiet ritual I started the night you left, and I’ve kept it going ever since. You told me once, “Even if we’re miles apart, we’ll always be beneath the same sky.” And for me, that has always been enough.

We met at a coffee shop in Prague. I was lost, both in the city and in life. You were a local, helping tourists find their way, your camera always slung across your shoulder, eyes full of light. You offered me directions and ended up giving me a reason to stay an extra week. Then two. Then a month.

The city became ours—mornings by the river, afternoons in secondhand bookstores, evenings chasing sunsets from rooftops. You taught me to see beauty in the forgotten things. Cracked sidewalks. Faded posters. The way time passed slowly when we were together. You made the ordinary feel extraordinary.

But life, with all its twists, doesn’t always pause for love.

You had been accepted into a prestigious photography program in Tokyo. I had a job waiting back in New York. Neither of us wanted to say goodbye. But neither of us could ask the other to give up their dream. So we made a promise instead.

“We’ll find our way back to each other. No matter what.”

The first few months were filled with video calls, late-night texts, and postcards. We’d fall asleep with our phones beside our pillows, our voices fading into each other’s dreams. You sent me photos of city lights and cherry blossoms. I sent you letters written between meetings, filled with everything I couldn’t say out loud.

Then time began to stretch. Work got busier. You started traveling more. The hours between us grew heavier. Messages became shorter. Calls less frequent. And yet, neither of us said it was over.

Because it wasn’t.

One night, when the silence had been too long, I stood outside, looked up at the stars, and whispered your name. The wind answered. I told myself you were doing the same—that somewhere across the world, you were looking up, thinking of me.

And that’s how the ritual began.

Ten-oh-three. Every night. No matter the weather, no matter how tired I was. It was our time. A thread connecting two hearts stretched across time zones.

Years passed. Life unfolded. I changed apartments. You launched exhibitions. Friends came and went. I dated others. You probably did too. But no one ever touched that place in me you had reached. It was sacred. Untouched. Yours.

Then last winter, I received a package—no note, just an old, worn photograph of the two of us, taken on that last night in Prague. On the back, in your handwriting, it read:

"Still beneath the same stars."

I cried for the first time in years. Not because I was sad, but because I realized something: our love didn’t fade. It simply transformed. It grew quieter, deeper, woven into who I had become. I still carried you with me, not in longing, but in peace.

Last month, I visited Prague again. I walked the same streets, visited the café where it all began. And there you were—standing by the window, camera still slung across your shoulder, smile exactly as I remembered it. My heart stopped.

You turned. Saw me. And smiled like no time had passed.

We sat by the river, saying everything and nothing. You told me about Tokyo, about the gallery you opened. I told you about my writing, how you were in every story I’d ever published, even if I never used your name.

We didn’t need to ask why we never let go. We knew. Some love stories don’t need daily chapters to stay alive. Some just need one shared sky, one unbreakable bond, and two hearts that never stop remembering.

Now, we’re writing a new chapter—not rushed, not forced, just real.

Tonight, I still look up at 10:03 PM. But now, you’re beside me. You take my hand, and together we whisper into the night, “Still beneath the same stars.”

And this time, we stay.