You told me we were both young and naïve. Back then we thought that the distance to the star could be reached by time. Just like how it was for the broken streetlamp at the entrance of your alley. I remembered nine years old you, on the middle of starry night, came crying to me asking for the lamp to be repaired.

                I remembered how much I tried to reach for it. The scar on my knee always a constant reminder on that day where I fell from climbing the stake. I wanted to cry too then, but I didn’t. There, I recalled as the first time I wanted to look strong for you. So instead, I promised you, that one day I would grow up tall and strong so I could reach it without falling, fixing the light so you didn’t need to be afraid again in the dark every time you waited for your mother to get home.

                That day, on my nineteenth birthday I made my second promise to you. I would be a star which you could wish upon someday. I would make you a house with thousand lamps and I would always be home before dawn so you didn’t need to wait for anyone any longer.

                You told me we were both young and naïve but I told you I was too proud of myself. I was too drown on the sight of you that day, where I finally fixed the streetlamp, and you were smiling so beautifully that I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you.

                Now what time made for us was distance which drifted us further and further. I no longer aimed for the sky and you had put your gaze on the ground where you thought as the only place you and your mother’s sin belonged.

                If, if only the young you were not so naïve while I were not so proud, we might have different promise. I might have promised to light up a candle for your room and stayed with you all night long and maybe today we would find ourselves sleeping soundly in each other arms, instead of crying in the dark, miles away from each other.