1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

29 | cygnus

"WHERE ARE WE GOING?"

Eloise lets him hold her hand, heart feeling heavier as the minutes pass. There's an extreme tint to both of their personalities—and she can see that Jonah's too tired. Tired of holding on. Tired of trying.

They both are.

But instead of talking, he just smiles gently and tucks a stray curl behind her ear, pressing a small kiss to the tip of her nose and laughing as she swats him away. "The planetarium," he tells her, and Eloise tilts her head in confusion.

"Why?

"You're cute, baboya." Jonah hands her two tickets and asks her to keep them in her pocket while the GPS voices out clear directions. "Just trust me, okay?"

Feeling herself relax automatically, she lets her hand linger outside the window to catch a glimpse of the glowing afternoon sky: clouds dust themselves with grainy specks of silver, skies turn a shade of faded blueberry madness, and heaven closes its doors as her gaze tilts upwards. With almost another month passing since their anniversary, it seems like they're growing unfamiliar with each other, and she's—changing.

And no one told her that maybe someday, she'd eventually slip out of his grasp.

No one told her.

***

The planetarium functions as a middle passage between humans and angels, and Eloise's eyes widen as she takes in everything around her. At the Griffith Observatory located in Los Angeles, children linger as they attach themselves to the walls, fingers trailing on the glowing gems and rectangular explanations in front of famed exhibits. Jonah's presence comforts her as they walk in silence towards the telescopes mounted on a see-through model of the milky way, and there's something a bit sad about this—at how they're looking at these planets that constantly orbit but never touch.

In the hours of midnight and early morning, Eloise knows that she can't keep going through this restless cycle without risking a permanent feeling of numbness and pain and regret, and it's messing with her head so fucking bad that all she wants to do is forget about it.

But she can't. She can't.

Because in the end, all she wants to be able to do is smile without feeling guilt lather her emotions like an inky film, and Eloise can't figure out what's wrong. It needs to stop: her anxiety attacks, her agony, and her tears; pressure rises in her eardrums like an ocean wave, and the bullet holes poking through her lungs lack resistance. And now, with everything finally falling apart, Eloise is desperate for an escape.

She needs to let go.

"Look," Jonah says, laying down on the seats and staring directly up at the galaxy of astronomical wonders, eyes shining with awareness. "See that?" She watches as his fingers connect a few stars in one smooth motion.

"Yeah," Eloise replies, sitting down beside him. "Yeah, I do. What is it?"

"Andromeda."

A pause. "What?"

Jonah turns towards her, just as handsome as ever and looking painfully wrecked as he runs a finger through her hair. "It's a constellation," he murmurs, voice low and speech unusually slow. "Most people don't know about it, though. Her mother—I think her name was Cassiopeia—claimed she was the most beautiful woman alive, and it angered Poseidon so much that he created a monster to stir up the seas."

Eloise holds her breath.

"And so when she wouldn't take it back, the gods ruled that she would have to sacrifice her daughter to the ocean. With Andromeda chained to the rocks and on the verge of death, Perseus saved her and they fell in love, and—and she lived as his queen. Forever."