The night air is heavy, thick with the scent of rain that never quite falls. The sky stretches wide above us, an endless black canvas scattered with trembling stars. The world is quiet except for the soft hum of cicadas, their song weaving into the stillness between us.

Anna stands beside me, arms wrapped around herself, as if holding herself together. The streetlamp above casts her in gold, making her look almost unreal—like a girl made of light, flickering, fading. I watch her, the way the wind catches strands of her dark hair, the way her eyes, tired and hollow, stay fixed on the ground.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know that every breath she takes keeps me alive. That every time she looks at me, it feels like I’ve been chosen, like in that moment, I exist in a way I never have before.

She doesn’t know that I love her.

“Anna,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. She lifts her head slightly, but she still won’t meet my eyes.

I swallow hard. I know I shouldn’t say it. That it will change nothing. That love, when it is one-sided, only serves to hurt the one holding it. But I can’t live with it rotting inside of me any longer.

“I love you.” The words feel too small for what they mean.

She freezes, like she wasn’t expecting it—even though she should have. How could she not know? It’s been in the way I say her name, the way I wait for her laughter like it’s the first drop of rain after a drought.

For a moment, she doesn’t speak. Then, she exhales, and it sounds like something breaking.

“Oh, Zach…” she says, and my chest tightens at the sadness in her voice.

She turns to me then, and in her eyes, I see everything I have always been afraid of—apology, regret, and something even worse: emptiness.

“I wish I could love you back.”

It hits like a knife through flesh, slow and deep. I force a smile, but it feels like glass cracking across my face. “It’s okay,” I lie, but she shakes her head.

“No, it’s not,” she whispers. “Nothing is okay.”

And I know what she means. Because I’ve seen it—the way she’s been fading, slipping further into herself. The way even the things that used to make her smile don’t seem to reach her anymore.

I should say something. Tell her she’s not alone, that I will stay, that I will love her even if she never loves me back. But she steps closer, pressing her forehead against my shoulder, and I swear I can feel her unraveling.

“I’m so tired, Zach,” she murmurs. “I just want it to stop.”

Panic grips me. My hands tighten around her, desperate to anchor her here. “Anna, please—”

But she pulls away, just enough to look up at me. And in that moment, I know. I know.

She’s already made up her mind.

A few hours later, the phone rings. The world tilts. And suddenly, nothing matters.

The love I held for her, the words I spoke, the hands that tried to hold her here—none of it was enough.

She is gone.

And I am left, standing beneath a sky full of stars that will never seem bright enough again.