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Violet adores stargazing.
It makes her think of her childhood: freckled stars on her bedroom ceiling that matched the ones on her face. They deeply contrasted her navy walls; those stars were familiar, guiding beacons in the darkness that often surrounded her. She would point them out each night and ramble about the constellations “only she could see” — a fleeing bird that glowed soft magenta, or a knife that elicited a sharp, electric cyan.
Violet chuckles forlornly at the memory, looking back up at the consuming navy that is no longer confined to her bedroom. She’s sitting on the hood of a cherry red Mustang, hands sliding absently alongside the scarred metal, her fingers dipping into fresh dents and old scratches. Somehow, a beat-up car and focusing on the stars above made her feel like a kid again.
She wants to find constellations, but not those boring ones you look after finding out you’re a Capricorn. That’s dumb, Violet scoffs mentally. No, she wants to find her own constellations that circulate in her mind and just need to be discovered in the correct collection of star bundles.
The first constellation to craft comes easily. She swings her fingers around hastily. Swoosh swoosh swoosh. They end in a flick of her wrist and the specks of light form messy curls in the sky that remind her of hair. Specifically, hair that her hand has woven through — the silky texture ghosting on her fingertips and the smell of pine trees filtering through her nostrils. It reminds her fondly of a special girl, and they glow in the same blue aura that she possesses. She shakes her head and moves on.
The next constellation she traces is a baseball cap. Violet giggles admirably as she traces out the battered accessory, picturing the mud stains that dominated the white of the back and the faded lavender that sits at the front of the cap. Another signature to her , Violet sighs, moving her legs onto the hood of the Mustang and gingerly resting her chin on her knees. The cap’s constellation is glowing an inviting purple, their components bursting with light that makes Violet smile against her own teeth. She raises her hand once more.
The final constellation is, admittedly, super complicated. Violet scrutinizes the twinkling sky with unwavering attention, hazel eyes reflecting the sparkling sea up above. Her fingers move tentatively, careful to only connect the brightest of stars within that singular storm. Her mind is overwhelmed by how invasive the clusters seem to be — a cacophony of pick me pick me pick me when she only wanted to pick the ones that were a memorable blue like her . Violet works tirelessly to complete the image, hands dipping nervously to capture the profile of a face — round nose, plump lips, and the last hints of curly wisps of hair. She’s almost finished when a faint whisper sneaks into her space.
“It’s beautiful, Violet.” She nearly flinches from her spot on her hood, turning to the owner with red rose streaking across Violet’s cheeks.
Violet watches as Clementine stares up at her creation in the sky, the stars all aligning to form one united image that was her girlfriend sitting right beside her. Clementine slides closer then, her calloused hands always feeling like clouds in hers and those two loose curls falling placidly against her forehead. Violet removes that battered cap once more ( she always keeps that grimy thing on) and focuses on the biggest star of them all. Clementine, a supergiant, that glows in a mixture of blue and lavender, and holds the universe in her touch.
As their lips collide, Violet feels like she’s falling backwards onto cloud nine. The stars move in reverse, golden flecks swirling in an obsidian basin, and she is welcomed home again.