Cosmic Love

She has always terrified him.

It is, of course, not her fault—it has never been her fault. It is his own fault for being so childishly terrified of her. Terrified of the worlds she could see. She has always seen them.

He is much too blind, much too small, much too earthbound. He can only see the trees. The grass. The sea. The farthest he can see is the sun, and even that burns too brightly for him to gaze at.

Not she.

Gravity does not apply to her, has never applied to her.

And that is why she has always terrified him so.

Her voice, the words it spoke. Always of stars and the edge of the universe. Of undiscovered galaxies and worlds beyond his fingers—his, but not hers. She has always known how to touch them. Her hands--they always have reached for planets and galaxies and what lies beyond a black hole. Her eyes--he can swear that he sees the supernova of a billion suns reflected in them, each time she smiles.

Not he.

His voice can only reach as far as he knows, as far as he has been. Bound to earth. He has never been able to so much as brush starlight. His hands--they can only reach in vain for hers, billions of lightyears away, her fingers entangled in the cosmos, and his entangled in despair. His eyes--he cannot see. He cannot see at all. Not far enough, that is. She is the farthest he can see. and then he is blind.

That has always terrified him.

And it terrified him even after she tells him in such glee that she was chosen—chosen for her luminescent brilliance and her eyes that can see past the atmosphere. Chosen to be a cosmonaut among the stars, chosen to fly.

It is her dream.

She has always longed for them—the galaxies, the cosmos, everything in-between. She has always dreamed to live by watching stars die, to reach out her hand and skim the milky way.

He has only ever longed for her.

And yet, he smiles at her, laughs as she laughs and tells him volumes about her training, about the planets she would reach and the stars that would nearly be close enough to touch. Tells him how she will wave at him from up there. Tells him that they will laugh together like this again, as she spends three years upon a space station and he remains earthbound.

He remembers that gravity does not apply to her, never to her. And he smiles, even as she flies away. Away to drown in the cosmos that she adores so, that she belongs in.

He watches her shuttle take off, watches the rockets malfunction, watches her plummet in flames before she reaches a thousand feet. Watches gravity.

She dies before she reaches the cosmos that she loved.

He stands in stupor, staring up at the sky and the sand and the stars at her funeral. The funeral that buries her remains, forces them into the earth in which she does not belong.

And only now does he unwrap her parting gift to him—she thrust it into his arms as she was herded off into the shuttle, her smile brighter than ever and the suns collapsing in her irises as she said her goodbyes. It is not extraordinary, her gift—a hardbound copy of Le Petit Prince with her script scrawled over its pages, underlining and circling and drawing in the margins. It is addressed to him, but only on the very last page.

Even now, I want you to look up at the stars and laugh, for I am there! Will you do that for me? Look up to the stars like only you can, and we will laugh together.

And then there were the words I love you. I love you and I will be reaching for you, from up here in the cosmos. Laughing with you. See?

He forgets he is blind.

She still terrifies him. Even now. He can look up at the sky outside his bedroom window and see the stars, see the cosmos, and see her and her eyes that reflect the supernovas of suns. He can look up at the cosmos and laugh with her, and when he reaches, he can finally feel her hand.

Gravity does not apply to them, has never applied to them.