It starts somewhere. From something. For some reason. But she can't pinpoint their's. In which part of our conversations or dates or gazes did we start?

She can't pinpoint their beginning. It just happened; out of the blue and yet it feels like it's been planned all along. Like it was truly meant to happen. And somehow it sort of feels like they've started from the middle; like they picked up where they left off.

Evening dates at the cafe turns to dates to the movies on Friday nights. Dates to the movies on Friday nights turns to dinners on Saturday evenings. But mostly it's stargazing on random nights. Or they're just watching the sunset. Or when they're up for it, they'd watch the sunrise. There's something there, something they're not willing to share with anyone else. Something that's only them, with no exceptions. Their's and their's only. And even if they don't know what it is, they hold tight. Tighter and tighter.

And by winter, she'd already memorized the way those tiny freckles on his face seem to form constellations beyond beautiful. And the way his feet always shuffles close to her, and how his arms would drape over her shoulders with her's around his waist. And the way he'd forget about everything for a moment and he'd just freely laugh into the night with his head thrown back. How his heart would pound against her cheek when she'd be tracing contellations in an invisible pattern with her fingers.

And everyday she feels as if she's walking on a tight rope; daggers and fire and blades and pain and anguish just right below. She feels as if she's dancing on thin ice. And she loves it. She really does.

"Do you think I'm weird?" She asks one night, as they're lying on blankets and it's cold but not yet freezing.

"No. Why do you ask?" He turns to look at her face properly.

"People say I'm weird. That I'm crazy. And that you're a fool... you know, because you're always next to me."

"Well, we're all crazy." He smiles. He likes it; the feeling of not needing to filter his words every ing second. "I mean, in a way, we all are. What the hell is normal if someone's crazy is someone's normal and someone's normal is someone's crazy? It's all about perception, is it not?"

"Yeah. But they say I'm mentally ed up. And truly, I am; I don't even know who I am."

"You're not."

"But did you not think so as well when you first saw me here - alone, late at night, staring at the moon as if it was my home?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not them. And you can't just label me as one of them." Although he's not sure who them refers to.

"Then, what was your impression of me?"

He thinks for a moment. Thinks of a way to put this into the best words he could possibly muster up; not because he needs to filter them now, but because she deserves to know the truth. And he doesn't think he could portray it enough in words. "You seemed like a lost star. Light slowly dimming, slowly draining of energy and strength. Li