When the Stars Went Quiet
Alchemy of Love and Scars (a deeply personal piece).
I woke to the faint hum of the city outside, a sound that had become part of the backdrop of our lives. It seeped in through the cracked window, mingling with the gentle rustle of wind and the soft cadence of Angel’s breath against my chest. Her body was folded into mine, the way it always had been, like she was the missing piece I didn’t know I’d been searching for.
My hand moved instinctively, brushing over the ridges of her scars. They were part of her now, the physical echoes of battles she’d fought and survived. But they hadn’t always been there. Once, there had only been skin—soft, smooth, alive with magic.
Back then, we were kids playing in her backyard, long before the world had begun to lose its spark. She would weave fantastical realms for us with a flick of her fingers, places brimming with possibilities where the air shimmered like glass and flowers whispered secrets. “Come on, Lalo,” she’d say, tugging at my hand, her laughter wild and boundless. “Don’t be boring. You have to believe, or the portal won’t work!”
And I did. Because Angel made belief effortless.
But that was years ago, before the world grew quieter, before magic began to wane.
I kissed the line where her skin met metal, trailing warmth down her neck. She stirred against me, murmuring my name like a prayer, half-asleep but still aware.
“Good morning,” I whispered, my voice softer than the light slipping through the blinds.
She turned, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that started small but deepened quickly, the way it always did. Her hand found my cheek, her thumb tracing absent circles like she could draw something out of me that only she knew existed.
“My body hurts,” she said finally, her voice carrying the kind of resignation you don’t want to hear but can’t ignore.
I pulled her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist, grounding her to me. “Let me turn up the heater on your parts,” I said, reaching for the small control panel on her side.
Her laugh was soft, the kind that curved her lips without quite reaching her eyes. “You’re still terrible with tech.”
I adjusted the settings anyway, listening for the familiar click of the mechanism. When I looked back at her, I waited for it—the moment when her body eased, when the tension ebbed from her face. She sighed then, a sound that released something tight in my chest, and nestled into me again.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her smile faint but real.
“I love you,” I said, my voice breaking just enough for her to hear the truth in it. “I’m sorry you hurt like this every day.”
She tilted her forehead against mine, the space between us shrinking to nothing. “But you’re still here,” she said, her fingers tangling with mine. “And that makes it better.”
We stayed like that for a while, the city outside a blur, replaced by the quiet magic we had built together.
By the time the light filtered through the blinds, Angel had moved to the chair by the window. She was wrapped in the yellow blanket that we both pretended didn’t smell faintly of dust and time.
The city outside kept moving, its pulse steady, relentless. The world had grown smaller over the years, stripped of the wonder it once held. Magic had slipped from the cracks, fading into the background like the hum of an old refrigerator.
But not ours.
“How’s that?” I asked, crouching beside her to adjust the fabric over her legs.
“Perfect,” she said, leaning back with a soft sigh. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her tea, and I steadied the mug until she could grip it herself.
“You spoil me,” she said, her voice teasing, though there was a weight behind it that she didn’t try to hide.
“You deserve it,” I replied, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her.
The steam from her tea curled upward, catching the light in a way that reminded me of her magic—the way it used to move, unrestrained and alive, like it had a heartbeat of its own. She watched it for a long moment before speaking again.
“It’s beautiful today,” she said, her gaze drifting to the skyline.
“It is,” I agreed, though I wasn’t looking outside. I was looking at her, at the faint color in her cheeks, the way the corners of her eyes softened when she was at peace.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked gently.
She hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. “I want to try something,” she said finally.
“What is it?”
Her hand lifted between us, her palm up. At first, there was nothing—just the faint tremble that always seemed to follow her now. But then, slowly, a flicker of light appeared, faint and wavering but unmistakable.
I held my breath as the glow grew stronger, casting soft patterns on the walls. It wasn’t the wild, unfiltered magic she’d wielded as a teenager, the kind that could fill a room with stars and stories. But it was still her. It was still real.
“I didn’t think I could anymore,” she said, her voice barely audible, like she was afraid to speak too loudly and shatter it.
“You always could,” I said, covering her hand with mine.
The light dimmed, then disappeared, but her hand stayed in mine.
“I’m still me,” she said, her voice trembling.
“You’ll always be you,” I replied, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.
That night, as the city murmured its restless song, I held her close, her breath warm and even against my chest. The hum of her mechanical parts was steady, a sound that had become as much a part of our lives as the air we breathed.
The world outside moved on, growing quieter, duller, as magic faded into something more akin to memory than reality. But not us. The magic we had built together—worlds created in her backyard, laughter shared in the glow of her unrestrained power—had never left. It had simply alchemized into something quieter, something steady and enduring.
Love, I realized, was its own kind of magic.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll always be here. For as long as you need me.”
Her hand found mine in the dark, her fingers curling around mine like a silent promise.
When the sun rose the next morning, Angel stirred, her eyes fluttering open to meet mine. She smiled, the kind of smile that made me forget everything else.
“I love you,” she said softly, her voice still carrying the weight of sleep.
“I love you more,” I replied, brushing her hair back from her face.
She laughed, shaking her head. “Always trying to one-up me.”
“Always,” I said, pulling her close for a kiss.
It wasn’t the same as it had been when we were kids, playing make-believe in her backyard, her magic lighting up the world around us. But what we had now—this quiet, steady love—was its own kind of world.
And it was enough.