The North Star once fell in love with a girl.
But she was only human, and she passed away.
When he first saw her, she was very young—fifteen, maybe sixteen, her hair falling into her eyes as she bent down to pluck a dandelion from the ground. She was so small in that field of grass, so golden in the daylight.
She took his breath away.
He floated downwards, hoping for a closer look. He was almost invisible, save for the hint of stardust that trailed behind him in the late afternoon sun.
Though he made no sound, she turned. The dandelion seeds sprayed into the air with her movement. Her eyes widened—such eyes, dark and dazzling, the color of liquid shadows and obsidian. He lost himself into those eyes, fell into them so deeply that he could not speak. They studied each other in silence.
"Who are you?" she said at last.
"I am the North Star," he said, in a voice as soft as the whispering breeze. "I come from the skies."
She laughed. Perhaps she did not bel