Star-Crossed

We’re arguing, again. The plan was to walk together, and she was late. Or maybe I was late for good reason, and she made a big deal of it. She never understands me. No, yeah, she’s the one who was late. I had to mill about in the street while she kept texting me hold on, wait another minute, and another. It’s like she’s unwilling to see things from my perspective; she just knows how to fight. And anyway, the night’s already sour.

We’re walking briskly. She has her white sneakers on—no, her pink ones—and I’m wearing my old black pair. She stays ahead of me, probably out of spite. Wait, or is she lagging behind? I don’t have the patience for this; I catch up. I try to keep my voice down when I beg her, just please cooperate. We can squash this, and there’s no need for the petulant display. Why does she always do this? I walk ahead and suddenly realize she’s drifting behind, again. Great.

She’s still bristling because I took longer to get ready, or because I bugged her about her delay. I remembered our plan; it’s just that things pop up and I can’t always control them. And now she huffs ahead of me as if it’s me who messed up our night. Yeah, because I just do that.

She’s wearing a white graphic tee and black leggings—the contrast between her hair and the white shirt is always nice. I can admit that despite her tantrum. I mean, she does look good in that red shirt—it was always her color. I look down at my chest and see how my shirt is already dark with sweat. Perfect summer night out. I doubt my mood will recover. We’re at odds and she’s the most stubborn girl I’ve ever known. She grows louder and I go deeper into silence. Actually, it’s the reverse. I can never pull her out of her insistent silence when she’s like this—she just won’t budge. And yeah, I try to keep my voice down because I don’t want to cause a scene and have people gawk at us, but she’s so frustrating that I just can’t help myself.

Oh, there she goes—she’s almost shouting now, and I catch up and harshly whisper, begging her to keep her voice down. Please, please! Why do we always end up having these outbursts while we’re outside? I ignore whoever might be—must be—looking at us by now. We’re that crazy couple disrupting the night. But she doesn’t care, she’s just openly furious now and there’s no way to salvage anything. We’re still walking, and the streets blur past us. We’re heading north, toward the train station, or rather, we’re going west to the beach. It wasn’t meant to be this way. I catch myself, take a deep breath. She insists I’m shouting at her, that it’s scaring her. I resent her for making it seem like I’m shouting. But—I do want to be more in control of myself, so I breathe and speak softer. She’s a bit more responsive now that I’m quieter, but the yelp of a distant cat derails my train of thought. In any case, it looks like she’s run out of things to yell at me.

We enter an empty basketball court—I don’t know why—and circle each other. I avoid her eyes and look at my new, grey sneakers. I can’t bear her acidic glare. I try to catch her eyes but she’s doing everything she can to avoid me. How will we solve this if we won’t even look at each other? She’s still so pretty.

I—or is it her?—end the lull and approach. I feel myself slipping into a kind of silence she won’t be able to pull me out of. No matter what I say, I just can’t break through to her, she’s still insisting on my fault, her innocence. We’re at an impasse and I want to go home.

“Valentin, Valentin! Look!”

He stands apart from her; his white shirt soaked through. His eyes are boring helplessly into his scuffed, black shoes. He can’t look up. A pity.

“Oh my God, look! Look!” Her voice bright, free of conflict.

He looks, and she stands there joyous, delightful—the black shirt he gave her hugs her beautifully—as her eyes are fixed on the dark, pin-pricked heavens and now so are his, but—

“What? What is it?”

He scans the night sky, stelliferous but still. He is doubtful, but she is genuinely glowing. His furrowed brow relaxes despite his will.

“It was a shooting star!”

“Really? You saw it?”

She closes the distance to him as if there was never any tension. She hugs him.

“Mhm, it just crossed the sky. I’m sorry you missed it.”

He tenses up, worries about sweat. Her cool skin is lovely.

“I—it’s fine. I was just staring at the ground like an idiot.” Tension leaves his body.

She holds on, unbothered by sweat, and his frown is undone next. Something far above gently pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s okay. I can describe it to you.”

Softly, as they turn back from the direction of the station, Noa tells Valentin of the trail left by their final star.