Red Stars

He isn't sure if what he lived was real. Sometimes, he remembers it with a clarity that aches; other times, like a half-told dream that unravels the moment he tries to hold onto it. What's certain is that since that person vanished, if they ever truly existed, nothing has felt the same.

In his mind, he's turned them into something more than human: an angel with black wings. Not out of purity, but because of the shadow they carried. There was a strange kind of beauty in them, as if sorrow had taught them to move with a grace that hurt. He never knew what they were searching for, or why they left. He only knows that since then, he keeps seeing them in places that no longer exist.

The moon and the red stars have become part of his delirium. The stars-small and burning-are symbols of freedom, the kind he only tasted while standing near them, like a breath of air he didn't know he needed.
And the moon... the moon is more complicated. There's a quiet gentleness in its light, a soft warmth that seems to speak only to him. As if they shared a secret. As if someone, somewhere, still remembers him.

Maybe he loved them.
Maybe he made them up.
And perhaps he'll never know the difference.