I can see her sitting, staring into the night. She hugs her knees to her chest trying to find comfort within herself. She knows as well as I that this was how it was meant to be. Her tea is getting cold. On nights like tonight we'd sit and talk philosophy, literature, anything to ignore the fact that the clouds were hiding the stars. On nights like tonight we were normal people. The wind starts to play with her hair and pulls it loose around her. I always liked her hair short better. Her robe sleeves blow up around her elbows and she shivers slightly. I want to tell her to go inside, there's no magic out there tonight. That's what she's looking for. She'd always say there was magic in the sky at night, I'd always agree. Time was we'd sit out here and watch the night pass by. Things were always different at night. Maybe I changed, maybe she did, but at night we didn't have to compete, didn't have to argue, we could just be and that was enough. One night we had a picnic and we talked about our dreams. I told her I always dreamed about frogs and she laughed. She told me she always got hurt in her dreams. We never talked about it again. I wish we had. Her pajama pants are blue. I hate blue. It's getting to be past midnight. Normally we'd be saying our good-byes right now. I'd offer to walk her to her room, she'd tell me to go to hell. We'd laugh. Then we'd get caught up in conversation again. She once told me that she wanted to live on the moon when she was little. From what she's told me I figure she was a weird kid. She's still weird. She painted her toenails. She never could explain to me why girls painted their toes. Feet are ugly, she'd say, it helps make them prettier. I don't get it, I guess its because I'm a guy. We talked about self-image once. She cried that night. I cried too. On magical starry nights anything was okay. On magical starry nights we weren't X-Men. She was just a lost southern girl and I was a misguided Cajun boy. On magical starry nights she wasn't Rogue and I wasn't Gambit. We just were, and that was all that seemed to matter.

We don't talk anymore. I'm not sure how it happened, but there are no more magical starry nights. I guess we've grown up too much to go back. I miss talking about life. She was so much smarter than anybody thought. She's read Milton. Neither of us liked it much. But still some nights we run into each other up here on the roof, her watching the sky, me smoking my cigarette and watching from a distance. We used to dance up here. She'd spin and twirl in the air. She said she felt free up here. I feel free up here too. She's still sitting there watching the clouds. But now the clouds are parting, the stars are peaking through. It's just another starry night, no magic anymore. I stamp out my cigarette and walk away. Before I start to go back through my window I take one more look at her. She's dancing. She stops. She sees me watching her.

"Remy?" She asks through the wind. I answer her because I can't help it. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if the sky were yellow?" I smile because I can't help it. She's that lost southern girl again, if only for tonight. I'm just a misguided Cajun boy again, if only for tonight. I smile and I look up at the stars. "Nah." I answer. She pouts. "I always thought if it were any other color it'd be green." She smiles. Oh yes, there's magic in those stars. Underneath those stars anything is possible.