Eternal Ephemerals

North star

It was just a random Wednesday, and they were sitting on a park bench, watching people pass by—parents pushing strollers, joggers with earbuds in, a couple arguing in hushed tones near the fountain. The day had been unremarkable, filled with the easy conversation that always flowed between them. And then, out of nowhere, Ken had turned to her, with that familiar smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the edges.

"You know, Mickey, you're my North Star."

Just like that, the air seemed to shift.

The world around them continued—children laughing, ducks gliding across the pond—but for Michela, everything froze. She remembered smiling, nodding, maybe even making a joke to lighten the moment, but inside, her mind was spinning. He'd said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You're my North Star.

What was she supposed to do with that?

Now, days later, the words still echoed in her head, louder and heavier every time she replayed them. North Star. People didn't just say things like that. Did he realize what he was saying? Didn't he know that calling someone your North Star meant something? Something big. Something that changed everything. It wasn't the kind of thing you said to a friend—at least, not to just a friend.

She loved Ken, she really did. But this—this had thrown her off balance. She stared at her phone on the coffee table, her thumb itching to call him, to ask what exactly he had meant. But she didn't pick it up. She couldn't. Because what if he hadn't meant it lightly? What if he was trying to tell her something? Something she wasn't ready to hear.

The truth was, she had loved their friendship exactly as it was. She loved the way it didn't require constant validation, the way they could go months without talking and fall back into step like no time had passed. She loved how they could just be, together or apart, without the pressure of defining it. The simplicity of it was beautiful, easy, safe. But now his words had dropped a weight into that ease, cracking the surface and sending ripples through the thing she thought would always be steady.

What if he meant it romantically? The thought had kept her up at night, circling like a storm cloud in her mind. If Ken had feelings for her—real, serious feelings—what was she supposed to do? And, more terrifyingly, what if she didn't feel the same way? What if his confession, however gentle, demanded something she couldn't give? It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it before—there had been moments when the idea of them as something more had flickered in her mind. But those moments had always been brief, fleeting, quickly pushed aside because the friendship was too precious to risk.

She loved him as a friend, as someone she could count on, someone she could turn to. But romantically? Could she picture them as more? She wasn't sure. Every time she tried to imagine it, it felt like stepping into an unknown that she wasn't ready for, like taking a leap and not knowing if there would be solid ground beneath her feet.

The thought of hurting him scared her, too. If she didn't feel the same, what would that do to him? To them? The thought of losing him, of that easy rhythm between them being shattered, made her stomach twist. Could they go back to the way things were if she didn't feel the same? Would he want to?

And then there was the question she hadn't allowed herself to ask, the one that sat in the back of her mind like a quiet whisper: What if I do feel the same, and I just haven't realized it yet?

She didn't know. The uncertainty was maddening. And it wasn't just the fear of losing the friendship—it was the weight of being someone's North Star. What does that even mean? It was beautiful, sure, but also overwhelming. To be someone's constant, their guide, the thing they look to when they're lost—did she want that responsibility? Could she handle it?

She sighed, running her fingers through her hair, trying to untangle the mess of thoughts in her head. What did she actually want? Did she want Ken to feel that way about her, or was it just the idea of it that made her heart race? Or worse, was she afraid that his feelings, whatever they were, might push her into a space she wasn't ready to occupy?

She loved him, but she didn't know if she loved him that way. She didn't even know what that way meant anymore. Was she just scared of losing what they had? Or was she scared of what it could become if she let it?

Stop. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ground herself. Her thoughts were spinning out of control, creating problems that might not even exist. She didn't know what he meant, and she was torturing herself with possibilities that hadn't even been spoken out loud.

She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over his name again. She could text him. Something light. Something that would pull them back into safe, familiar waters. A joke about the weather, a comment about something funny she'd seen online. Anything to push this tension aside. But would that really help? Would pretending his words didn't matter make them go away?

Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, she thought, trying to calm herself. Maybe it was just a way of saying she was important to him. Maybe "North Star" was his way of saying she was a constant, a friend he could always count on. But even if that was all he meant, the weight of it still hung there. To be someone's anchor, their guide—it was beautiful, yes, but it was also heavy. And what if she couldn't live up to it? What if she failed him?

Stop. She told herself again, more firmly this time. She couldn't keep spiraling like this, replaying the moment over and over in her mind, dissecting every word, every glance.

What did she want? Right now, she didn't even know. The idea of them being something more was terrifying. The idea of losing what they had was even worse. And the thought of confronting him about it felt impossible. She wasn't ready to ask the hard questions, wasn't ready to push for clarity. Because clarity would change things. Clarity meant risking the truth. And right now, the ambiguity, the not knowing, felt safer than forcing a conversation that could break everything.

Michela set her phone back down and leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Maybe she didn't have to figure it all out right now. Maybe it was okay to let the words sit for a while, to let them exist between them without forcing an answer. She didn't have to know what he meant, not today. She could still be his friend, still share in their laughter, still be there when he needed her. Maybe the rest would sort itself out. Maybe, eventually, she'd figure out how she felt—or maybe he would.

The sun streamed through the window, casting a soft, golden light across the room. She closed her eyes and let the warmth settle over her. She didn't have to think about it right now. She didn't have to decide what his words meant, or what they meant for them. For now, she could just be still. She could let their friendship continue, let it find its own way, without forcing it into a shape it wasn't ready to take.

She sighed, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV, letting the sound fill the room, drowning out her thoughts.

I won't think about it, she told herself, sinking deeper into the couch, letting the noise wash over her. Not today.