Where Shooting Stars Go
“…traversing in and out of the sky; travelling from one time to another — in hopes of finding their home.”
2 months after ‘his’ death’.
She, 76 years of age, was sitting upon an aged rocking chair perched at the lawn of an old home. She was cradling upon her chest a framed photograph of a man. T’was 11:30 in the evening — a lonely, cloudless night.
Love, I still dream about you. I dream of the days we were still together, but more often than not, I dream of that day when I’d last seen you — that day when I’d let you go. It isn’t exactly a nightmare, because I’m glad that I see you, still, when I close my eyes. I find peace knowing you’re there. I wake up with the hint of a smile, at least until my good night’s dream fades away from my rustic memory.
Everyday felt like years after we parted. I’ve been living the remaining years of my life in utter sadness, one so overwhelming it could keep me awake at night. When I chose to leave, I inflicted upon myself an inevitable misery — a wound so terrible that no amount of intricate stitches, no amount of anesthesia would probably be able to ever soothe the hurt away.
My leaving you was a prelude to a lifetime of regret.
That’s why I prayed and wished tirelessly in altars and churches, upon all wishing wells, with every dandelion petal I caught in the wind — that you wouldn’t suffer from this heartbreak as much as I do. I had hurt you enough. At the very least, I hoped that you kept smiling.
I haven’t had the chance to tell you after I left. It would be decades too late to tell you now, that I am sorry — for you and I both. Forgive me for being too cowardly to take a step closer, to commit to you even though I am madly, violently, and helplessly in love.
Forgive me for letting go of your hand when all I had ever wanted was to cling on to it.
Forgive me for breaking all of our vows even before we had the chance to speak them.
Forgive me for not growing old with you.
You spoke to me once about shooting stars, a long time ago, when you were lying on my lap and my hands were cradling your head. You told me I thought wrong of them all these time, because they aren’t just meteors falling from outer space.
“They are actually lost souls who weren’t able to be with their soulmates in their given lifetime.”
You said it was unfair, that others get to meet theirs and spend their lives with them, while others die alone and deprived of the love meant solely for them. Thus, shooting stars existed, traversing in and out of the sky — a way for lost souls to travel from one time to another, in hopes of finally meeting the one that they love; their soul’s mate; the one that’s meant for them.
After a lifetime of lost chances; of kisses un-kissed and of hands un-held; of sweet nothings, endearments, promises, and I love you’s unsaid — they finally go home.
You said that when we see one, we should make a wish not only for our heart’s desires, but also for that shooting star’s — that they finally arrive to where their heart should be. These stars burn bright and beautiful, just like how their destined love would have been if only they were given the chance.
Just like us, you said, before you pulled my head down for a gentle kiss.
How lucky I was to be in love with a man that had a beautiful way of thinking, and an even more beautiful heart. Back then, I hope I had asked you.
What happens to those who had the chance to meet the love of their lives, but instead made the mistake to let them go?
What happens to someone like me?
I want nothing more than to see you again. Next to you and nowhere else, is where my heart should be.
A single teardrop. A ghost of a smile plastered on her lips. 11:58 pm, she took her last breath.
The picture frame dropped from her hands — shattering glass all over the floor.
A moment later, up in the night sky, a shooting star went by.