Hunger of the Stars

The night sky had always been beautiful to Jonas. A vast quilt of scattered lights, steady and eternal. But beauty often hides truth, and Jonas was the first to sense the change. It began subtly—stars seemed closer, brighter, hungrier. He told himself it was his imagination. He was wrong.

One evening, he noticed a star flicker strangely. Not the twinkle of distance, but a pulse, like something alive. He stared until his neck ached, certain he saw it swell, then shrink, as though it were breathing. He laughed nervously, blamed his tired eyes, and went to bed.

By the following week, more stars pulsed. The sky looked restless, shimmering with unease. Then came the whispers. At first, faint, like a breeze brushing his ears. Soon they grew sharper, words that weren’t his but slid into his thoughts. We hunger. We wait.

Jonas tried to ignore it. But silence no longer existed for him. Even in daylight, he felt the pull, a gnawing hunger pressing against his chest, a hunger that wasn’t his own. His dreams filled with vast mouths opening among the constellations, rows of teeth grinding planets like seeds.

The first disappearance was a satellite. News stations scrambled to explain the sudden blackout. Then, one by one, stars began to vanish. The night sky had holes now, patches of empty black that spread like rot. Scientists gave press conferences, speaking of cosmic dust and collapsing systems, but Jonas knew. The stars weren’t dying. They were feeding.

He couldn’t explain how he knew. The voices told him. He was chosen—not as a savior, not as a prophet, but as a witness. And witnesses were meant to watch until they couldn’t bear it anymore.

At the edge of sleep one night, Jonas found himself floating above Earth. The stars surrounded him, close enough to burn, yet they didn’t. They swirled, forming eyes that blinked in unison. A voice deeper than galaxies spoke: Hunger is eternal. Worlds are only meals. Tell them, if you dare.

When he woke, his skin bore faint burns in the shape of constellations.

Jonas tried to warn people. He wrote articles, posted videos, stood in public squares shouting at strangers. Most dismissed him as mad. A few listened but looked away quickly, unwilling to trade comfort for terror. Hunger is an impolite subject. Cosmic hunger, even more so.

Nights grew darker as stars disappeared at alarming speed. Farmers noticed their crops wilting earlier, nights colder than they should be. Birds lost their direction. Animals became restless, as if they, too, heard the whispers. Jonas no longer slept. He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw teeth grinding the horizon.

Then came the night no stars shone at all. The sky was empty, a vast black mouth swallowing everything. Cities panicked. People prayed, rioted, clung to each other under a sky that no longer cared to glitter. Only the moon remained, pale and fragile, trembling under the weight of silence.

Jonas walked alone to the edge of a lake. The water reflected nothing. He knelt, whispering to himself, “This is it. This is the end.”

But the voices returned, not cruel, not mocking. They were almost tender. Not the end. The beginning.

Above him, a new star flared—massive, crimson, alive. It pulsed with hunger so fierce he felt it in his marrow. Then another appeared, then another, until the whole sky filled again. Not with the stars he had known, but with eyes. Eyes that watched, eyes that judged, eyes that waited.

The world cheered at the return of light. Scientists offered theories of cosmic rebirth. Children clapped at the new sky. But Jonas trembled. He understood what the others refused to see. These weren’t stars. They were mouths waiting to open.

He whispered to the lake, “They’ve come closer.” The water rippled though no wind blew.

For days, he walked among people who celebrated under the crimson glow. Markets stayed open late, lovers picnicked under the “new constellations.” But Jonas felt the truth pressing against him, suffocating. He saw hunger in every red flare, a hunger that made Earth seem small, soft, breakable.

One night, he returned to the lake. The sky pulsed above him, crimson waves rolling across the heavens. The voices whispered again: Witness. Choose.

“Choose what?” Jonas demanded. His voice cracked in the emptiness.

Join, or be consumed.

The water reflected his face, pale and hollow, framed by burning stars. His hands trembled. He thought of the silence that would come if he refused. He thought of the endless hunger that might swallow not just Earth but everything. And he thought of the strange comfort in the voices, the way they had followed him alone, the way they had chosen him.

When the stars opened their mouths again, Jonas did not run.

The villagers found his shoes at the edge of the lake the next morning, damp with dew, empty.

That night, one star pulsed brighter than all the rest, as though it had found its meal—or perhaps, its witness.