once, she belonged to the sky. not as a star, but as the space between them. the silence that held constellations together. the heavens loved her for it. they threaded light through her bones, named distant fires after her, and called it a blessing. but every blessing is a debt waiting to be collected. when the sky grew hungry, it began taking its gifts back. first the light. then the warmth. then the pieces of herself she had mistaken for her own. one by one, stars fell from her body and vanished into the dark. yet something remained. not a saint. not a goddess. only a wound shaped like a constellation. and so she stayed. neither earth nor heaven would claim her. above her, meteors crossed the night like forgotten prayers. below, flowers bloomed from the cracks the stars had left behind. as if beauty had learned that falling was another way of becoming eternal.