They both liked to look at the stars, even though they knew the stars were fake. They lay side by side in the dry, half-dead grass by the river, gazing up at the sky. Neither speaks, neither points out the constellations they're making up, connecting bright dots millions of miles away because they can't connect themselves to those around them. At some point he feels her hand brushing his, feels her grasp lightly at his fingers, the gesture almost weak, almost desperate.
For the first time, he doesn't pull away.