Limbo in the Stars

I have a scrapbook of you. Every time I open it, a raw, tender warmth satiates me, as though we share an invisible thread, a latent bond. I’m revisiting our moments every night in lucid dreams, a recurring fantasy that I never want to forget. I keep this to myself. It’s been ages–two weeks since I last saw you–and the universe is closing in.

I sleep adrift. Often, I climb onto the raven-painted plywood ladder Popps made for my birthday; the one to hang the star on the Christmas tree. I stretch the ladder into its full-capacity, climbing up its wooden rungs. I pry open the ceiling trapdoor. Looking up, I see the universe and its stars. I grab the binoculars around my neck and bring them to my eyes, where yellow dots are magnified in the lenses. It’s pristine, the way I like it; nothing and everything is spread across the earth, like the sky is melting into one another.

I remember when you used to show me a magic trick, grabbing onto one shooting star in the sky. You’d make a wish, then transform the luminous orb into a tiny paper star that fit right into my palm.

Back on the ladder, a message pings on my phone, I read it swiftly–you finally reply. We’re meeting tomorrow.

Drinking late beers on the porch of our favorite bar, you sit me down on the frayed, black couch where our parents used to take swigs of beer, fists knocking on the table, a gesture indicating they wanted more. Now look at us, we’re an imitation of our memories.

We catch up, and it's all light smiles and awkward glances. A notification from your phone and your face lights up instantly. You scream with joy, eyes darting across the screen, phone clutched tightly in your hands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask with a brittle smile

You hand me the phone, displaying an invitation to embark on the newest space capsule.

“I’ve been accepted into the space expedition of the year to test their newest spacecraft propulsion system! It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time, and I’ll probably be gone for a while again.” You shrug it off like it's nothing, but I can tell you’re excited, the corner of your mouth curves upward.

Each syllable out of my mouth is hesitant. “It’s a high risk, I’m not sure about this. Is this even safe? When will you be back? Isn’t experimenting in the lab safer?” I don’t know when you'd come back, I don’t know what this would mean for us, so a jumble of nonsense spills out of my mouth.

You stare at me, disgruntled, “This is the problem with you, assuming things unknowingly. Maybe this is a good thing, a good chance. New experiences are good, learning something new is good.” You pause, holding my gaze as if the next words that would fall out of your mouth would hold more weight. “This was the wish I made that night.”

I look at you, sighing, “That was like ages ago. This just all seems a little bizarre, can’t you reconsider? It’s hardly the deadline, and you should stay here.” With me, I think. Heartened, I reach over to console you, but instead, you retract, biting your lip tightly.

Looking at me displeased, you avert your eyes, twirling your beer till the bubbles start to froth. “Can’t you just be happy for me just this once?”

“Okay.” If you were happy, so was I.

Then you continue to ramble on in philosophical musings, about the notion of the universe and what it was to become, talking about hypermodern spaceships and interstellar nebulas and whatnot while I stare into your suddenly unfamiliar eyes, observing your pupils, inadvertently, habitually.

Rarely. Rarely do I think of the fleeting, passing currents of the universe. Some people believe in horoscopes, and others in star signs. I don’t, I always believed in subjectivity; who could truly know what was out in the universe? But I believed in you, in everything of you. I lived on a single philosophy, a single metaphysic, a single rationale–the consummation of you. You were the stars, and I was the universe.

You were the shooting star I was endlessly chasing.

The morning of your departure comes. I leave the apartment from a sleepless night, scrambling down the stairs to head out, hurrying over to yours. By the time I arrive, you’re standing in the doorway, one arm pressed against the wall, pulling on the heels of your favorite, fisher-esque leather-crafted boots, paired with a plaid blouse and skinny jeans.

“Hi,” I say with a grim smile, letting the word flow out with an exhale.

“Hey there, here to witness my last words?” You speak in a playful tune. “I’ll come back. It’s our promise.” You swear.

“I know.” I’m not surprised. Swearing was your go-to line, but it doesn’t feel real anymore. I plaster a lopsided smile to reassure you, leaning against the wall to see you struggle with the boots.

We stand there for what seems like a lifetime, breathing in and out synchronously. My smile trails off as the ticking of your watch resurfaces, forcing me to confront the matter ahead–the remainder of our time until our next unknown reunion. Your gaze transfixes onto mine, while my stare holds its tears back in place.

Then you finally break the silence. “It’s time, I think I’m late,” Making your way to the elevator shaft, I follow you, stepping behind your footprints leading away. Impulsively, I tug at your sleeve, quivering with something disguised as unease.

I look down at my scrappy flip-flops, eyes glistening wet. "I’ll always be here waiting. I’ll miss you,” I say it like it’s the last time I’ll ever see you. A droplet falls onto my toes, following another, and another.

You sigh, and I lift my eyes up, dumbfounded. Analyzing your face, you reveal brows furrowing at the faint intimacy I let slip, clenching your jaw with a blank expression. “Maybe you will. I’ll make myself clear because frankly, I’ve been thinking.” Lingering over a pause, you seem to fully collect your thoughts as a string of hard, clearly contemplated ideas fall out of your mouth. “You’re holding me back to the point where it’s stifling. I want to move, I want to accomplish, I want to reach up, but you make me feel like there's something wrong with that. With you, it feels like I’m stuck. Stuck in a limbo.” Your words spark a brief flare of regret, but it's not because you regret the words you’ve said, but because you wish you’d said it differently. And so you step into the elevator regardless, with expressionless eyes shaping a face I’ve never seen.

“What?” The word drags out.

My mind drifts into an old memory in the back of my mind–faint scents of cinnamon billowing across the living room, the clock striking 11:59, and it’s only one of the many Christmas Eve’s that I can’t make out until I see my seven year old self standing in the doorway. Younger me was scrutinizing Popps as he set up the ladder, positioning it against the Christmas tree. “I’ve finished setting it up. Come put the star on the Christmas tree,” he said. I carefully stepped onto the ligneous ladder, lifting my small body up each rung. Poppa held my hand and handed me the glinting yellow star. I was mesmerized–the star was enchanting. I stretched my arms out to place the star on the tree, reaching and reaching, “It’s too high,” I said to Popps. He smiled. But I was infuriated. He didn't understand. I was growing annoyed by every bit of it. My skin was prickly, and my face was red. And I couldn't reach the top because I was one step behind. Each stretch of my arm, my breath quickened in exasperation, my heartbeat choked, I wanted to do it. I wanted this. Nonetheless, it was impossible. “I want to come down,” I said, and Poppa responded in amusement, “You’re just a step away, but it’s fine. I’ll do it.” The glimpse of my memory becomes disheveled, and your voice snaps me back into reality.

“Are you listening to me?” Your voice is far away. You’ve already made up your mind, the derisive intent in your voice says everything but explains nothing at all.

“What?” I stutter out. I don’t know what to think–the memories, the stars, and you. You’ve never expressed yourself like this before. This isn’t like you. This isn’t how you’re supposed to be.

You look at me with a face of pity, one that you think clarifies it all, yet I don’t understand–no words come out of my mouth.

“Forget it.” You say, apparently aggrieved as you momentarily press your eyes shut. I’m staring at you–you and your tired eyes already feel so far away. You only get farther when I can’t count on your promises with the next words you say. “Until then.” And that was it. The elevator doors glide shut.

My mind lingers. Forget what? You leave me there, idling blindly in your hallway, and it’s increasingly blatant that I’ve been abandoned, by the last ounce of you that I could hold onto.

You said this might happen, and I’ve gone through all the possibilities of what your absence would look like, sound like, taste like, at least, in my dreams. I imagined it as a dormant virus waiting to be opened; and the thing is: I’m scared of it, it’s an incongruency in my modulation, a malware I’ve never experienced before. I tilt my head back and fall down against the wall. I let out a sullen cry. I’m standing in front of your lift, and the closed-circuit television sees a young woman, with an indecipherable expression, yelling and yelling, ripping her hair out. It’s me or maybe not, I don’t know who I am without you. I let out a scream, hearing it echo down the hallway. I tell myself I don’t care.

I sit in front of your doorstep for what seems like hours, staring at your door, ajar. I want to enter. But like before, my body aches, I’m weak. My arm alone is not enough to open the wooden door. The single-eyed peephole is glaring at me, mocking me. A dizzy sensation washes over me, and my bones go limp. My hand fails to grasp the doorknob. Once again, I can’t reach you, and I never will.

As I open my eyes, my body is laid out on the carpet of your house, a mysterious brown tinted bottle in my hand. It’s the same brand we often get drunk from, and drool dribbles from my mouth. Despite that, I push my arm to lift my body up. Your door is closed, I was too late.

I rush back home in a twist, in my stomach, and in my brain. It’s not computing; nothing is the way it’s supposed to be, you’re supposed to be here with me.

Weeks pass in a blur, heaps of laundry pile on in my room, a stack of clothing rung up like a Christmas tree. I feel lethargic. The thought of seeing the expedition’s updates is suffocating, reminding me of your obscure presence far far away.

It's Christmas again. Until a notification dawns, I don't register. It’s the first time I open the television, “Headline News: Promising Space Expedition Loses Contact.” I stare at the screen, stoic. The star on my Christmas tree falls to the ground.

Bottles of beer spill onto the edge of my bed, five, maybe ten. My vision is hazy but I’m famished, I’m craving a drink, I’m craving the stars, I’m craving you.

The whole room tastes antiseptic, I nearly vomit. Glancing into the mirror, the look on my face I could only describe as vacant. I close my eyes and dream, but all that I can make out is a daunting nightmare about our end. I guess this is it, the end of us. But a doubt lingers in my uncertainty. I gravely recall your words, “I want to reach up,” and so be it. I stand up and place the star back on the top of the tree. I’m going to reach up.

It’s easier than I realized to obtain what I wanted. A few shifty people with endless contracts, that’s all it took to get to you.

The spacecraft is finally secured. The dashboard flashes “READY FOR TAKEOFF”.

I shift the grime on the resting pod, snuggling into the sheets to avoid the hefty scent of pure air. In flickering motion, static begins to shake the bunk, the capsule flashing colors of blue, your favorite color. My eyes flutter wide open, blinking awake with frustration as I rush into the panel room waiting for the computer to initialize. The monitor loads bar by bar, and I can’t wait. The navigation console brings me to the location of the aircraft, descending onto the planet with molten rocks.

The buttons on the panel power off as I flick open the monitor, checking breathing vitals and visual signals. The spacecraft stops, and I lift the lever high, closing in on the eroded planet. With one step, I close the ambiguous bridge of distance between us, leaving the terminal’s opening hatch. Embarking off the spaceship, I immediately spot you on top of the hill. I whisper into the air, a smokey hue escaping my breath, hoping my words would somehow cut through the musk to get to you. Still, as I tread onto the snow-parched floor, losing my breath up the bumpy mosaics etched on the ground, you are distant. A mutilated, dissipated, dreadful odor emerges. And I approach the smell of a lifeless, abraded corpse. One step at a time, I plunge into the snowy pillows. Your anatomical remains stain the stone-cold ground, body shimmering in the ecstasy of the achromatic ambience. A grotesque scene, but it's beautiful. You’re beautiful. I feel you. You’re tenuous, a wilted rose about to falter, break in my arms. But everything feels right because we’re together.

On the snow-mounted rink, I clasp your hand in mine, placing your arm on my hip, and my hand on your shoulder, waltzing in circles, shifting my “skates” across the ice-shrouded floor; I'm dancing with an imploding star. We glide down the peak, laughing then falling down. Sequentially, we lay down, staring up into the abyss with white stars speckled across it. For a second, the abyss looks like a mirror, a reflection of myself, pieced with millions of you. The universe is me, and you are mapped across it. We’re melting into one another, like nothing and everything spread together. I chuckle, this reminds me of our childhood. Your laugh isn’t reciprocated.

I peer over to you, caressing your frost-bitten cheek. “I’ve reached you, I’m here.” I say with a beery breath, my exhale meandering up into the sky. You should be proud of me.

I lift my respiration mask, pushing the foggy helmet aside, planting a white-tinged kiss on your forehead, rimmed with the last breath of oxygen. Our hands together, our eyelids fold shut into one another.

Still and all, as a consequence, the cold wakes me up

“Why did I..” I move around, straining my elbows to the ground, finding myself lying down in a puffer jacket, blanketed in snow. The pinches of cold shiver against my fingertips. I lean back on the incline, sitting up just to find you gone. Desperately, I crawl deeper into the snow, tears dripping away, crystallizing as I scramble everywhere, digging into heaps of white. Yet momentarily, exhaustion hits, and my anguished face buries within the snow. Failing to catch my breath, my head crashes onto the hard tablet set in the ground, revealing a grimy slate.

It’s a grave, and on the footstone is your name. I slump down onto my knees, stupefied. A wave of numbing nerves entangle my lungs, I’m suffocating. How is this happening? My mind is disjointed, I can’t put the pieces together, it’s fragment after fragment. The sky is contracting, the galaxies are caving in, and the stars are complying against its will.

My eyelids are folded shut, oscillating repeatedly. My head is enervated, laid back. It’s black. I see ripples of analog static lines, a VHS tape failing to replay, like a fabricated memory that I’ve been reliving. Only then do I realize that none of this happened; you never went to space, and you never said goodbye. You just left, and I’m still trying my best to hold on.

Because of me.

I let you go.

You’re dead. Even after all these years of searching.

“This is where it truly ends.” I guess, opening my eyes, with irrepressible droplets gliding off my face. A shooting star appears across the sky. And I make my final wish. I want to relive you all over again, sincerely.

I open my eyes to you giggling.

“Look! There are so many shooting stars, I can’t catch them all!” A thirteen year old you is pictured next to me, we’re sitting alongside the beach on a picnic mat. I peer up to the sky, glancing up at the gleaming dots speckled across the universe. I giggle, and you utter a wish under your breath. You wish you could travel to space at least once.

“I wanna show you a magic trick, watch this.” An incoming shooting star flies past us. You manage to catch the star with your hand just in time. I watch you, in a daze, your hands jostling the “star” in your hand. You slowly open your hand up, revealing a minuscule, handcrafted paper star that you put into my hand. “I love it, thank you.”

I press play again.

“Look! There are so many shooting stars, I can’t catch them all!”