When the Sky Forgot the Stars

The world didn’t end all at once.

It faded.

Little by little.

Like a song losing its melody, or a flame flickering out.

At first, it was the birds. Then the bees. Then the crops. Then color. The sky dimmed into a strange rust-red, and the stars simply stopped showing up.

By the time scientists admitted there was nothing left to do, it was already too late.

Most people fled the cities, chasing rumors of safe zones, bunkers, miracle havens.

But in a forgotten town on the edge of nowhere, Elia stayed behind.

Not because she was brave.

Because she had nowhere else to go.

Her parents had passed years before. Her friends had all disappeared into distant coordinates or long silences.

And honestly, she was tired.

Tired of running. Tired of pretending.

She spent her days scavenging and her nights drawing constellations on her cracked ceiling—trying to remember what stars used to look like.

Then one day, someone knocked on her door.

**

He introduced himself simply.

“My name’s Kael.”

He was sunburnt, tired, wearing a backpack that looked like it had lived more than he had. But his eyes were kind, even if his voice was cautious.

“I saw smoke from your chimney,” he said. “Didn’t expect anyone still alive here.”

She almost laughed. “Alive is generous.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

And then she said, “You hungry?”

He nodded.

And just like that, she let him in.

**

Kael didn’t talk much at first. But over time, the silence softened.

He helped her fix broken windows and hunt for canned food in abandoned homes. He brought matches and stories. She gave him drawings and coffee made from roasted roots.

Some days they played old cassette tapes and danced barefoot on the roof.

Other days they just sat there, side by side, watching the quiet sky.

The world outside was crumbling. But inside her chest, something was growing again.

**

One night, Kael asked, “Do you ever wonder what the stars would say, if they could speak again?”

Elia looked up. “Maybe they’re still watching. Just too far to reach us.”

Kael nodded. “Or maybe… they’re waiting for us to look harder.”

They held hands for the first time that night. Not like lovers in the beginning of a romance. But like soldiers who survived something bigger than war.

**

Days became weeks.

The air was thinner. The light weaker.

But strangely, Elia didn’t feel afraid anymore.

She had already lived through the worst of life—the grief, the loneliness, the fading of everything beautiful.

What she hadn’t lived through was this:

Warm laughter in the cold.

The sound of someone breathing beside her.

The way Kael said her name like it mattered.

**

On the last morning, she knew.

The sun didn’t rise. Just a quiet grey, like the sky was whispering goodbye.

She looked at Kael, who was already awake, staring at the horizon.

“How long do you think we have?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “A few hours. Maybe less.”

She nodded. There were no tears. Just stillness.

“I’m glad you knocked,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you opened the door,” he replied.

They spent the last hours like they did the first.

Sharing food. Sharing silence.

And then, as the wind began to carry the last breath of the earth, they returned to the roof.

Kael reached into his backpack and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.

It was a small projector.

“I saved this,” he said. “For tonight.”

He turned it on.

And across the crumbling rooftop, stars spilled onto the cracked walls—digital, flickering, beautiful.

He had recorded the constellations before the world lost them.

Elia gasped, tears finally falling.

And under that artificial starlight, he leaned in.

And kissed her.

Not like an ending.

But like the memory of everything worth remembering.

**

When the sky forgot the stars, they made their own.

And loved until the very last light.