Constellations Between Us

“I remember,” the voicemail whispered.

Nova Carter sat frozen on the edge of her bed as those two words filled the tiny apartment bedroom she shared with her little brother. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows while distant sirens bled through the city night.

Her father’s voice sounded older.

Smaller somehow.

Like life had finally worn holes through him too.

Nova pressed the phone tighter against her ear.

Static crackled.

Then softly:

“I’m sorry.”

The message ended there.

No explanation.

No reason for disappearing four years ago.

No I love you.

Just an apology arriving too late like flowers at a funeral.

Nova stared at the ceiling for a long time afterward, her chest aching with the kind of hurt that never leaves completely—it only learns how to sit quieter inside you.

Across the room, her little brother slept curled beneath superhero blankets, his tiny hand hanging off the mattress. Even asleep, he looked exhausted. Kids weren’t supposed to carry stress like adults, but poverty had a way of aging people before life even started.

Nova pulled the blanket gently back over his shoulders.

Their mother still wasn’t home.

Probably another double shift.

Probably another night standing on swollen feet under hospital lights while pretending exhaustion wasn’t slowly hollowing her out.

Nova swallowed hard.

She hated how much her mother apologized these days.

“I’m sorry dinner’s late.”

“I’m sorry I missed your school meeting.”

“I’m sorry I’m so tired, baby.”

As if surviving was something to apologize for.

As if carrying an entire family on breaking shoulders made her weak instead of extraordinary.

Nova slipped outside onto the fire escape with her hoodie wrapped tightly around herself. Cold rain kissed her skin while the city stretched endlessly below—streetlights glowing gold against wet pavement, strangers moving through darkness without ever really seeing one another.

Above her, hidden behind clouds and light pollution, were stars she could barely make out anymore.

When she was little, her father used to take her onto rooftops to watch meteor showers.

“You know what I love about space?” he once asked her.

Eight-year-old Nova shook her head while clutching hot chocolate between tiny hands.

“It makes people humble,” he said. “Reminds us we’re small… but still important.”

Back then, she thought fathers were permanent things.

Like gravity.

Like the moon.

Not people who vanished.

Tears blurred her vision before she could stop them.

“You don’t get to miss someone and hate them at the same time,” she whispered bitterly to herself.

But she did.

God, she did.

She missed the man who taught her constellations.

The man who braided her hair crooked because he tried anyway.

The man who once worked three jobs just to buy her a telescope from a pawn shop.

And she hated the man who left her mother crying quietly in bathrooms so the kids wouldn’t hear.

The man who stopped answering calls.

The man who turned survival into abandonment.

Both versions lived inside her now.

That was the cruel thing about love.

Even broken love keeps breathing.

The fire escape creaked.

“You out here freezing again?”

Nova wiped her face quickly as Malik climbed up beside her holding two gas station coffees. His hoodie was soaked from rain, curls damp against his forehead.

“You ever heard of knocking?” she muttered.

“You ever answer your phone?”

He handed her a coffee anyway.

Nova wrapped both hands around the warmth immediately.

Malik glanced toward her swollen eyes but didn’t push.

That was what made him different.

Some people tried to fix pain because they were uncomfortable seeing it.

Malik simply sat beside it.

Patiently.

Like hurt deserved company too.

“You heard from your dad?” he asked quietly.

Nova nodded once.

“What’d he say?”

Her throat tightened instantly.

“He said he was sorry.”

Malik looked down at the city below them.

“Sometimes people wait too long to become the version of themselves they should’ve been from the start,” he said softly.

Rain fell harder around them.

Nova laughed shakily through tears.

“You always sound like somebody’s tired uncle.”

“That’s wisdom.”

“That’s unemployment.”

He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly when he looked at her again.

“You know your mom’s proud of you, right?”

Nova looked away immediately.

“She shouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanna leave.”

The truth cracked out of her chest before she could stop it.

The internship acceptance letter sat hidden beneath her mattress upstairs.

Six weeks at Johnson Space Center.

Her dream.

And all she could think about was guilt.

“How am I supposed to chase stars while my mom’s drowning down here?” Nova whispered. “How selfish does somebody gotta be to leave people struggling just because they wanna be something bigger?”

Malik’s expression softened painfully.

“Nobody calls it selfish when rich kids leave home to chase dreams,” he said. “But when people like us want more than survival, suddenly it’s abandonment.”

Nova felt tears slipping again.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “What if I become him?”

Malik answered immediately.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

His voice stayed calm. Certain.

“Because you’re already hurting over pain you haven’t even caused yet. People like your father leave and don’t look back.” He paused carefully. “You’ve spent four years staring over your shoulder making sure everybody else is okay.”

Nova broke then.

Not loudly.

Just silently.

The kind of crying that comes from carrying too much for too long.

Malik pulled her gently into his chest while rain soaked through both of them.

And for the first time in months, Nova allowed herself to be held instead of strong.

“I’m tired,” she whispered against him.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how my mom keeps going.”

“She keeps going because she loves y’all more than herself.”

That hurt most of all because it was true.

Nova thought about her mother coming home exhausted every morning yet still kissing their foreheads before sleeping.

Still asking about homework.

Still smiling even when life gave her almost nothing to smile about.

There were women all over the world like her mother—

women who carried entire generations through pain nobody thanked them for enough.

Nova looked up toward the hidden stars.

“I remember when I thought space was lonely,” she whispered.

Malik rubbed circles against her back gently.

“Maybe it is,” he said. “But light still travels through it anyway.”

The words settled deep inside her.

Because maybe healing wasn’t about erasing hurt.

Maybe it was learning that love could exist in the same place pain did.

Her father hurt her.

Her mother saved her.

Malik saw her.

And somewhere beneath all that grief, Nova still had dreams reaching toward galaxies bigger than fear.

Above the clouds, stars burned endlessly despite the darkness around them.

And maybe people could too.