Star dust and hangovers
The alarm shattered the silence like a star exploding in a too-close galaxy. A shrill, synthetic chirp bouncing off unfamiliar walls.
Lyra groaned, temples pulsing with the fury of a dying supernova. Cold light trickled through blinds—unfiltered, blue-tinged, and mercilessly bright. She blinked hard as she sat up in a bed that wasn’t hers. The sheets were slate gray, soft and cool, smelling faintly of cedar and something sharper—ozone, maybe. Like rain before it falls.
A telescope leaned against the far window. Maps of constellations covered the walls. Books—paperbacks and hardcovers—were stacked in towers that looked just a sneeze away from collapse. A leather bracelet lay beside a half-finished cup of tea. None of it was familiar.
And the alarm kept blaring.
Lyra swatted until she found the snooze button. Then she noticed the photograph.
It was under a book with the title Stellar Collapse and Cosmic Dust, barely peeking out. She tugged it free.
Two people. A dim-lit bar in the background. Herself—definitely herself—grinning and glowing, tucked into the side of a tall guy with dark hair and storm-colored eyes. His smile was crooked, casual, like he knew something she didn’t.
Her skin prickled. She had no memory of that photo. Of him.
Orion.
That was what the handwriting on the back of the photo said: Lyra + Orion, 3AM.
As if on cue, the door opened.
Orion stepped in, carrying two mismatched mugs. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a faded band tee. Sleepy but effortless, like he belonged to this room—and maybe to mornings like this. He smiled.
“You’re up,” he said, as if they’d done this before.
Lyra stared at him, trying to place his face, his voice, anything. Her mouth was dry, and her head was fog, but one thought rang clear.
She didn’t remember last night.
Or him.
She straightened slowly, her voice coming out raspier than she wanted. “Who the hell are you?”
He blinked, but didn’t look offended. He handed her a mug. “You really don’t remember?”
She didn’t take the drink.
“I remember drinks. Stars. A rooftop maybe. After that, it’s black.” Her fingers tightened around the photograph. “And this picture. Why am I smiling like we’ve known each other forever?”
Orion looked down at his coffee, then back at her with something like regret in his eyes.
“Because,” he said slowly, “you told me you wished you could forget.”
