The night when you stare at the stars glinting brightly in the sky, a nightly passion for you when your work schedule allows it, is a time for you to wonder what lies beyond them all. Is there more? Is there life? When you stand there one night, not even from home, but from your new, unpacked apartment in the middle of the National City slums, you see two stars fall from the sky blazing colour and light across the heavens.
You sigh at the beauty of it, and turn back to your tiny apartment, boxes and clothes everywhere, and get back to work. You're a journalist, a reporter, and you've just come to National City. A vision in your young mind. And yes, maybe the idea of power is a bad one at your age, your mother Katherine tells you as much every day, but you're all alone now. The world at your feet. There for the taking. And you wonder. What will your life become?
Answer: You make your life. It does not make you. You're a person who won't let up. This, you know of yourself like you know your hair colour is messy dirty blonde and your eyes and a hazel green. You're so intelligent, so in tune to the world and all of its faults. You're smart. You know this of yourself, even though anyone else would miss it entirely. You're smart in other ways, ways others don't see. This is why you know you'll make it. You know you'll catch that dream, and others will hate you along the way. But that's who you are, you're a dreamer, and even hate won't stop you. Nothing will.
You grew up as an a-class student, then in journalism you did the exact same. You didn't watch much in kids television when you were a child, nor did you play a lot. Your time was spent in books, learning, chasing your dreams even as a kid. Your father supported your every word, told you you'd be whatever you desired. And later, he told you that you would be a CEO, and that you'd be everything you want to. Your mother, on the other hand, always felt you didn't live up to your potential. But then again, that was what had made you yourself, hard as diamonds, sharp as a bullet, and just as straight to the point. You grew up walking on lava, dodging missiles, coming to expect them even so you could avoid them, and that was why now, at 22, you're stronger than you'd ever thought you'd be.
In getting to this point, you'd formed walls, surrounded yourself by rules and cold harsh reality, so you could outwit it. You had no time for fairytales, fantasy, magic. You didn't think any of it was worthy to you, and that was why the stars outside your window that night, those falling stars of fire, were nothing more than a simple distraction for a few seconds. That was all.
But that night, you'd been oddly restless, hadn't been able to sleep. You'd also watched the sun come up the next morning, and it had seemed brighter than you'd ever thought possible, than you could ever remember.
You don't believe in fantasy. You don't believe in dreams. Soulmates, fate, such things as angels and cherubs, you simply don't believe in such childish dreams.
Which is why, the next day, when you're walking towards the bus stop to catch it and go to begin your new life, just enough money in your bag to begin your dreams, you ignore that you notice something odd about the girl sitting on the sunny bench by the stop sign for the bus. She's just a kid, maybe 11 or 12, of no consequence. A complete stranger. But there's something about her, whether it's the auburn hair that's long enough to hit her hips, or the straight set of her jaw, or the baby boy she's holding in her arms, you can't place it, but she's got you looking. There's just something about her that requires your attention, and that's something, because usually the only thing that needs your attention is you and your work.
You stop and wait while the bus slowly rolls up the street, still two stops to go, and you glance again at the girl that's cradling the small child. Hers? No, certainly not. She can't be more than 15. Not even...
She looks up at you, mild curiosity, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, because her eyes are so blue. So so very blue. And bright. Like sapphires cut to fit, and framed with the longest lashes you've ever seen if they were not fake. For some reason, you see the night before, the falling stars you saw from your apartment balcony, and you wonder what connection there is in your mind for those images to come together. How does she link to those, a plain stranger on the street?
You stare regardless, seeing stars and constellations in your own mind, and you realize her blue eyes look ancient. Like she's seen more then you ever will. It looks as if there are stars in her eyes, the stars you're seeing in your mind, and damn, you are drawn by the wild colour. So blue. So bright. She looks at you still, and those eyes are sad. So sad. But determined, if nothing else. She is strong, you can see it. And now, the baby boy in her hands, barely months old, also has those eyes. He's peeking at her now, reaching up with chubby hands, and she looks back at him and smiles slightly. He's not her child, there's no way he could be, with her young age, but then, he looks just like her. The same chin, jaw, eyes, even if his short ruffled hair is a stark black compared to her wild reddish shade.
The bus stops and you climb on, looking back at her, holding the door open. ''Are you taking a ride as well?'' You ask her kindly, and she meets your eyes again, sadness welling in their depths, and for a minute you wonder if she understands you. She seems so lost and out of place in this world, wearing a plain white dress that barely covers her thighs, similar white slacks and white combat boots that look new and fresh, even though she seems battered and hurt. Way too much for her young life. You sense she knows pain more than most, and that hurts most of all to you, but you wonder still.
Maybe she's just waiting. For a friend. For a parent. Being a loyal daughter. You have to assume, it's what you do, and you have no reason to do anything else.
She shakes her head slowly, messing up her red veil of hair, and you smile at her, releasing the door, and it closes, separating you from the girl, a total stranger, and she turns her head to look at some of the people that had gotten off, then startled, as the bus begins movement again, and takes off slowly. You watch her even as the bus pulls away, her attention back on the infant in her arms, and you force yourself to forget. It's none of your consequence, and you wonder idly as the bus speeds up and jostles you in your seat, why you care so damn much about a girl you haven't even heard a word from.
The next time you see her is 3 weeks later, and the sight jostles you to your core in every way, though you still cannot understand why. You're seeing stars again, cherubs and angels and all sorts of unrealistic things, and you shake your head even as you keep eyes on her, wondering what's causing these visions. You feel faint, even slightly dizzy, and suddenly regret the 4 espresso shots you had that morning at the Pilot street cafe.
But even so, something about seeing her here, combing through sales racks, looking at price tags, a plastic bag with a 2 litre carton of milk and two boxes of baby crackers in her hand, you feel sympathetic towards her. She's a child, and yet either she's being told to shop for the family when she's merely 13 at the youngest, or she's, and you hope to godly deities that you don't really believe in, that she isn't actually alone. You hope she's not homeless, but right now, she looks a lot like it. She also seems to have two frozen dinners and a small loaf of bread in that bag, and you sigh sadly at the sight. You watch her from the rack of blazers you were combing through for a professional suit, and you think. Why is she here? Who is she? And most importantly, is she okay?
You watch as she pulls a light grey tank top out of the $5 bin and holds it up, tilting her head curiously as the material slips through her fingers, then folds it and leans down to take the boy by his hand, the boy is with her again! It shocks you to your core, the fact that she has him along again, let alone the fact that she looks so messy and cold. Hurt. Sad. She looks... awful, honestly.
''Zhgam gem, Kahl Ehl. Kryp tulem bem llep guhlogh.'' She says, and you tilt your head at the bell, chirp like voice she has, like sunshine, like diamonds, but broken. And you don't even try to decipher the language, you can't make out one word of it. It's unlike anything you've heard before.