My father used to tell me that the stars were the souls of heroes and mighty warriors, forever etched in the sky so that we could admire them every night. I was never interested in the stars though, it was the space in between. It was always the backdrop, never the subject. So many other lives that never got recognition.

Quite a few were decent, I’m sure. But even then, the other stars (or at least they thought) turned a blind eye.

They’re the fillers in a series, a background character that is forgotten. I don’t think if anyone was asked to name a person, that they’ll ever say mine. Once I die, I doubt after my generation passed that anyone will know my name. If someone asked me my legacy, I’d say it consisted of laying in bed and scrolling TikTok.

I never saw people like that on television, that must mean that me as a character really isn’t that well-written. “It’s written in the stars,” people say to their lovers.

That must be why I’m still single.

There’s eight billion people on this world, and that’s only currently. So many lived back and back, now lost to time. It makes me question:

“What’s even the point?”