Letters from a Star

| prologue |

Did you know that Aphrodite looked different to each person?

Well, I didn't, at first. But what I did know was that when I first saw Ishani, l didn't care what Aphrodite would have looked like to anyone else.

She was right in front of me.

My eyes followed her as she walked––no glided––across the room. It was ethereal, the way she tried to blend into a crowd, but managed to stand out anyway (like the brightest star on a clear night). Ishani's arms were crossed against her figure, as though she was trying to make herself smaller, less visible, somehow. Her eyes––oh god, her eyes––were wide with nervousness but set with determination, all the same; they were a rich chocolate brown that matched beautifully with her dark skin. It had to be impossible , for a person to look like they didn't come from this world, and yet, appear to be the reason everything even ceased to exist. Surely, surely, the sun would burn out and the flowers would wilt and the constellations would stop aligning if this girl didn't exist. Not with her starry smile and hair that was made of silk, gorgeously cascading down her shoulders, and falling into place like dominoes.

What if I told you that I knew Aphrodite? That she was my best friend.

And that she's part of a constellation, a star. Maybe, maybe not.

All that I know is that she's dead. That lengthy description I just gave you were my exact thoughts when we met. My opinion of the sweet, kind, sometimes idiotic girl never changed.

And in case you're wondering, yes, all the flowers within my soul shrivelled up and died, the sun was replaced with a never-ending abyss of darkness, and the constellations disappeared altogether.

And although it feels evil to say this, her death saved me in a way. In a way no one could have expected. After all, how could a dead girl help her best friend? It's not possible.

Well, it certainly was possible. And if you should take any life lessons from this...

Just don't ignore 'empty' notebooks.