The boy was twelve, sitting on the porch of their small house, a battered telescope set up in front of him. His father had saved for months to buy it, and the boy had spent hours that night trying to align it just right. The moon was full, its surface pockmarked and glowing softly in the darkness.

“See that?” his father asked, pointing to a shadowy patch near the edge. “That’s the Sea of Tranquility. That’s where humans first set foot on the moon.”

The boy squinted through the eyepiece, adjusting the focus until the details sharpened. “It just looks like a big gray rock.”

His father chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “It is a big gray rock. But it’s also more than that. It’s proof that we can reach for the stars, even if we don’t always get there.”

The boy pulled away from the telescope, frowning. “But what’s the point? Even if we go to the moon, or Mars, or somewhere else… we’re still just tiny. The universe is so big. We don’t matter.”

His father was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the moon. “Maybe we don’t matter to the universe,” he said finally. “But we matter to each other. That’s enough.”

The boy didn’t respond, but he kept staring at the moon, its light steady and unchanging. He didn’t understand, not yet, but he tucked the words away, like a star he could revisit later.

The young man sat in a cramped apartment, staring at a laptop screen. The email was short, no more than a few lines, but it felt like a punch to the gut.

“Dear Applicant,

Thank you for your application. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in this year’s intake. You have been placed on our waiting list…”

He read the words over and over, as if they might change if he stared at them long enough. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the room. The stars would be out soon, but he didn’t care. He closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, his chest tight.

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His mother knocked on the door. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Not hungry,” he muttered.

She hesitated, then sighed. “Okay. I’ll leave it on the stove.”

He waited until her footsteps faded before opening the laptop again. The email was still there, its words cold and unfeeling. He deleted it, then shut the laptop with a snap.

The coffee shop was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. He sat across from her, stirring his coffee absently. She had called him earlier that day, her voice calm but distant. “We need to talk,” she had said.

He knew what was coming. They had been drifting apart for months, their conversations growing shorter, their silences longer. But hearing her say the words still felt like a weight settling on his chest.

“I’m moving to Manila,” she said, her voice steady. “I got a job there. It’s… it’s a good opportunity.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

She looked down at her coffee, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “I think… I think we should take a break. See other people.”

He didn’t argue. There was no point. They had been holding on to something that was already gone, and they both knew it. He nodded again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

She reached across the table, her hand brushing his. “I’ll always care about you.”

He forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “I know.”

They sat there for a while, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. When she left, he stayed behind, staring at his coffee until it grew cold.

The call came a few months later, early in the morning. His mother’s voice was calm, but there was a tremor beneath the surface. “Your father… he’s gone.”

He sat there for a long time, the phone pressed to his ear, the words echoing in his mind. He had known it was coming—his father had been sick for a while—but hearing it out loud made it real in a way he wasn’t ready for.

The funeral was small, just family and a few close friends. He arrived late, the traffic heavier than he had expected. By the time he got there, the ceremony was over, and the grave was already being filled. He stood at the edge of the cemetery, his hands in his pockets, staring at the freshly turned earth.

His father’s words echoed in his mind: “We leave stories. Memories. Love. That’s our light.”

But what light was there in this? What light was there in a life spent chasing dreams that always seemed just out of reach? What light was there in being too late to say goodbye?

He stood there for a long time, staring at the freshly turned earth. The stars above were the same ones his father had pointed to all those years ago, but they felt different now—distant, cold, and indifferent. He thought about Vega, the star whose light had traveled twenty-five years just to reach his eyes. Was it still there, burning brightly in some far-off corner of the universe? Or had it died long ago, its light the only thing left behind?

He didn’t know. And for the first time, he realized he didn’t care. The stars could burn or fade, and it wouldn’t change anything. The world would keep turning, and he would keep being just another cog in the machine.

As he walked away, the stars above seemed to dim, their light fading into the void. A tiny, unshakable dread settled in his chest, a quiet reminder that even the brightest stars eventually burn out.