EPILOGUE
It was never thunder.
Never fire.
Never the kind of love that demanded to be seen.
It was moonlight—
soft, silver,
slipping through library windows
and rooftop shadows.
They were not meteors,
but satellites—
drawn together by gravity
too quiet to name.
She spoke in constellations,
he answered in verse.
And somewhere between the margins
and the margins of their hearts,
they found each other.
Not in the first glance,
but in the second silence.
Not in the kiss,
but in the hand that stayed.
Years passed.
Skies changed.
But the moon remembered.
It remembered the rooftop blanket,
the coffee at midnight,
the letter never sent
and the one that finally was.
It remembered the way they looked at each other
like the stars had secrets
only they could read.
And now—
beneath a sky still full of them—
they walk side by side,
no longer orbiting,
but arriving.
Because some love stories
aren’t written in ink.
They’re drawn in light.
And the moon saw every line.
