Love Beneath the Stars

The first time Arjun saw Maya, she was standing barefoot on the rooftop, her arms outstretched, as if trying to embrace the entire night sky. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and the breeze played with her hair like it had known her forever. In that moment, she looked like she belonged to the stars more than the earth.

He had just moved into the building two days ago — a quiet, lonely writer searching for silence and space to work on his long-overdue novel. But instead, he found her.

That night, under the same stars she seemed to worship, he whispered a hello. She opened her eyes slowly, like waking from a dream, and smiled.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" she said, not surprised by his presence.

"More beautiful now," he replied before he could stop himself.

She laughed. It was soft and strange, like a secret being shared.

And just like that, a story began.

Over the following weeks, Arjun and Maya met every night on that rooftop. They never planned it. Somehow, they just knew when the other would be there. Sometimes they talked for hours about everything — books, childhood fears, old heartbreaks, constellations, and why she thought the moon was overrated.

Other times, they just sat in silence, lying side by side on an old rug she kept near the water tank, counting stars they knew they couldn't.

Maya was unlike anyone Arjun had ever known. She didn’t own a smartphone. She painted postcards and mailed them to herself. She believed every star had a name, even if humans hadn't discovered it yet. And every time she laughed, something heavy in his chest lightened.

One night, he asked, "Why the stars?"

She hesitated. "They’re permanent. People aren’t."

He didn’t press. But he noticed then — her wrists bore faded scars like half-erased lines from a painful poem.

Autumn slipped into winter quietly. One evening, Maya didn’t come to the rooftop. Nor the next night. Or the next.

Arjun knocked on her door. No answer.

He asked the neighbors. They only knew her as the girl with the loud music and quiet eyes.

A week later, he received a postcard in his mailbox.

On the front was a painting — a rooftop under a star-filled sky. On the back, written in her uneven, looping handwriting:

“To the boy who made silence feel safe —

I have to go. The stars aren’t as close as they used to feel.

But thank you for giving me something beautiful to remember.

Keep looking up. I’ll be watching too.

— M.”

He read the postcard a hundred times, each word sinking deeper, heavier.

Months passed. The rooftop felt emptier than before. The nights quieter. He tried writing again but the words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t writer’s block. It was heartache.

Until one night in spring, Arjun saw her again.

She was standing by the edge of the rooftop, barefoot as always, arms outstretched — just like that first night. But this time, she looked fragile, like the stars were holding her together.

He walked to her slowly, afraid that even a whisper might break the moment.

She turned to him. Her eyes were different — like she had traveled far and seen things that changed her.

“I’m back,” she said.

He didn’t ask why she left. He didn’t ask where she had gone. He simply said, “The stars waited for you.”

And she smiled — not the sad, secret kind — but the kind that lit up her whole face.

That night, they lay under the stars again. Fingers touching. Hearts quiet.

Maya spoke first. “Sometimes, we leave not to escape, but to remember why we want to stay.”

Arjun nodded. “And sometimes, we stay because someone makes it feel like home.”

They didn’t speak of love that night. They didn’t need to. The silence between them was full of it.

The sky above them stretched endlessly, and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel so distant. It felt like it was listening. Like it had always been part of their story.

Because some love stories aren’t about grand gestures or perfect endings.

Some love stories are just about two people —

— lying side by side —

— beneath the stars —

— choosing each other again and again.