Beneath The Same Sky

Chapter 1- The Wrong Number

In a town this small, even the stars start to feel familiar.
Every night, they hang in the same places, staring down at me like they know my entire routine:
Homework. Tea. Window open just enough to hear the crickets.

Nothing here ever really changes.

The streets roll up by 9 PM, the café closes at 8 sharp, and everyone knows which houses keep their porch lights on the latest. It’s safe, predictable — and just a little suffocating.

I’m sprawled on my bed with my phone in hand, half-heartedly scrolling through history notes I’m supposed to be studying, when my screen lights up with a text from a number I don’t recognize.

> You left your notebook at the café.

I blink at it. I haven’t been to the café all day.

Me: Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

A moment passes. Then —

Unknown: Or maybe you’re just pretending so you don’t have to admit your handwriting is a crime against humanity.

I actually laugh out loud. Who is this?

Me: Excuse me?
Unknown: No one draws tiny constellations in the margins of their notes except you, “Not-My-Notebook Girl.”

I sit up, frowning — and smiling — at the same time. Nobody notices the little star doodles I make. Not my friends, not even my teachers.

Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Someone who clearly has better handwriting than you.

I should block them. That’s the sensible thing to do when a stranger starts teasing you about penmanship.
But instead… I reply.

We start with small talk — his claim that my doodles are “a cry for help,” my insistence that he’s obviously mistaken — but soon we’ve veered into a heated debate over pineapple on pizza.

He’s sharp. Funny. The kind of funny that makes you grin at your phone and shake your head like an idiot. Every time I think the conversation will fizzle, he sends something that pulls me right back in.

By the time I glance at my clock, it’s almost midnight.

Outside, the rain that started earlier has stopped, leaving the night smelling like wet earth and something faintly sweet. I push my window open wider and breathe it in.

My phone buzzes one last time:

Unknown: I’m guessing you’re more of a “stars over city lights” type of person.
Me: How would you know that?
Unknown: Lucky guess.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he is.

All I know is that for the first time in a long time, this little, predictable town doesn’t feel quite so quiet. And somewhere under the same sky, a stranger just made me laugh harder than I have in weeks.