We'll be the stars

Prologue

When I was three, my daddy said I could be whoever I wanted to be. So I picked up a book and began to read, the stories filled my brain with princesses and dragons and witches who turned princes to frogs. The stories taught me how to imagine and how to create, how to dream and wish on stars. When I was five, my daddy said as long as I stayed true to myself I could do whatever I wanted to do. After days of asking, he took me to stage school. I began to dance and sing and act. The movement filled my life with culture and expression and working as a team. I knew who I was. When I was ten, my daddy said I could be friends with whoever I wanted to be friends with, "Forget about the judgements," he said. So I chose friends. They filled my days with laughter and happiness, taught me how to make mistakes and forgive. When I was thirteen my daddy wasn't there anymore, "Never lose sight of who you truly are," he'd said as I sat next to the white hospital bed. The death filled my life with loneliness and heartbreak, taught me how to lose and almost let go, but never lose sight of who I was. When I was fifteen my daddy brought back painful memories of the person I used to be, the girl who sang and dreamed and chose the right friends. I was the girl who danced and read and wished on stars. That was the girl I used to be.

I remember when I was young, daddy would make popcorn with me and we'd take it into the garden and lie on the grass, looking up at the stars. "Make a wish and all your dreams will come true." That's what he'd said. I shut my eyes, squeezing them tight, held my breath and wished for my future. I wished for the bright lights of the stage, the smell of costume make up and the pain of stretching after a hard day of dancing. I wished for peace and love, friendship and family. I wished for the boy next door to finally fall for me. I thought that it'd all come true. That life would be one never ending fairy tale. But all good things must come to an end at some point otherwise there would be no heartbreak or mistakes and then we wouldn't be human.

I still had mommy, of course, she was always there, through the death, through the sad smiles and pitiful looks. But she didn't understand, she never would, because mommy was perfect. I always used to look at my mom and think, wow, she really is amazing. With her honey blonde waves and crystal blue eyes, she was like the princesses from my story books. Daddy had been perfectly imperfect; he had been a dreamer, someone who wanted the world to come to peace and for everyone to live together in harmony. Losing him was like losing a part of me. I'd never had to live without knowing that daddy was going to be there, to back me up and wish on stars with me. My first performance without him had been my worst; I remember it all too well. Waiting at the side of stage, knowing that he wasn't in the audience to clap and whistle like he always had done before, tore me apart. I went on stage in pieces. The stage lights hadn't felt exhilarating; they had felt claustrophobic, hot, close and sticky in a way that made me feel suffocated. The other actors looked at me with fear stricken faces, their eyes begging for to not mess up. I messed up. Instead of looking out into the audience with confidence like I used to, I screwed my eyes shut and a familiar panicking feeling had washed over me. The dizziness had become unbearable and my throat had felt like it was closing up. I collapsed, and awoke the next day in a hospital bed, surrounded by flowers and get well soon cards. Just like my father had been. I wasn't me without him. I forgot about my dreams for the stage, told my mother it was too much and stopped going to rehearsals. My place was filled and I was forgotten, I was dead to them all, like daddy.

Some nights, I would go out onto my balcony and gaze at the stars, it was the only place I could think without listening to my mother weep or thinking about all the happy memories me and daddy had spent reading stories and talking about hope in my bedroom. I would look up at the midnight blue sky and see the individual balls of burning light and think about how empty I was inside. Sometimes I'd take one of my fairy tales out there and cry for hours. The tears dripping down my face like condensation on a hospital window. I guess mother pulled herself together after grieving, she had to, and she had a fourteen year old daughter to look after. 

I remember meeting Connor for the first time. Mom had cooked a meal and told me to wear something nice. I waited at the bottom of the stairs for him to come through the door, wondering what he was going to be like. There was a knock on the door and I found myself smiling at the stranger who was holding a bunch of flowers. Connor wasn't like the horrible men you read about marrying mothers in books. He was perfect, my mother was a visibly happier person around him and so was I. The first time he came into my room, I was meant to be asleep. He had padded softly over to my bed and sat down, touched my cheek and started singing. To most people at fourteen, this would've been weird but to me, it was the only think I could've hoped for. He didn't have to care, I wouldn't have minded if he hadn't but the fact that he did made me immediately accept him as a new person in my life.

When I was 17 mom and Connor told me we were moving, for Connor's work they said, I nodded and hugged them both because I knew that it was the right thing to do. When the last moving van had pulled out of the driveway, I looked around the empty bedroom and let go. I let go of all the broken smiles and the lost hope. I let go of myself and never looked back. Because what was the point? All I would see is a broken girl looking at the stars, and the stars who stared right back.