Realisation hits at the most ordinary moment.

      We're in Psychology, and Riley's drawing stars in her notebook instead of taking notes. There's charcoal smudged on her cheek again, and her hair is falling out of its messy bun, and she's wearing that oversized green sweater with holes in the sleeves.

      And suddenly I can't breathe.

      The realization settles into my bones. All those moments replay in my mind with new clarity—her random star facts at 3 AM, the way she shows up at every practice with increasingly ridiculous signs, how she always seems to know exactly what I need before I do.

The way she crashed into my perfectly ordered world and rearranged everything.

      My heart races as I watch her draw, each stroke of her pen creating patterns I'm only beginning to understand. Like her stars, she's become a constant in my life—bright, distant, beautiful in a way that hurts to look at directly.

      Because I'm in love with her.

      The thought sends panic coursing through my veins. This wasn't part of the deal. She was supposed to save me, show me reasons to live, not become the reason herself.

      What happens when her birthday comes? When our deal expires? When she decides I'm stable enough to let go?

      "Mr. Carter?" Professor Chen's voice breaks through my spiral. "The stages of grief?"

      I stare blankly at her, my mind completely empty except for the way Riley's pen moves across her paper, creating constellations from nothing.

      "Denial," Riley whispers without looking up. "Anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance."

      Of course she knows. She probably lives them every day, cycling through stages of her own grief that she won't talk about.

      "Thank you, Miss Quinn," Professor Chen says dryly. "Though I was asking Mr. Carter."

      Riley just shrugs, adding another star to her collection.

      After class, she catches my arm. "Star watching tonight? Lucy's staying at a friend's house, and the meteor shower peaks at midnight."

      My heart stutters at her touch. "Won't your uncle mind?"

      "Night shift at the hospital. So? Stars?"

      I should say no. Should maintain distance. Should remember this has an expiration date.

      "I'll pick you up at eleven."

      Her smile makes my chest ache.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

      We drive out to the quarry—our quarry now, I guess. The place where I first broke down my walls for her. Where she first showed cracks in her own.

      Riley spreads a blanket on the hood of my car, patting the space beside her. "Better view up here."

      I settle next to her, careful to leave space between us. But she immediately scoots closer, claiming she's cold despite her oversized sweater.

      "Did you know that some cultures believed shooting stars were souls falling to Earth?" she says, tilting her head back to watch the sky. "Others thought they were tears from angels."

      "What do you think they are?"

      She's quiet for a moment. "I think they're reminders that even the darkest night can hold beauty. That even falling can be beautiful if you're falling towards something instead of away from it."

      My heart pounds. Does she know? Can she tell that I'm falling, falling towards her?

      "Twenty-seven," I say suddenly.

      She turns her head. "What?"

      "Until your birthday. The deadline."

      "Oh."

      "What happens then?"

      She looks back at the stars. "That depends on you. On whether you still want to jump."

      "What if I want to stay?" What if I want to stay with you?

      "Then you stay." Her voice is soft. "That's the whole point."

      "And what about you?"

      Now she does look at me, and in the starlight I can see every shadow in her eyes. Every battle she's fighting that she won't talk about.

      "What about me?"

      "Do you stay too?"

      She draws in a sharp breath. We're close now, so close I can see the scattered freckles across her nose that she usually hides with makeup.

      "Ethan..."

      I don't mean to move closer. Don't mean to reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face. Don't mean to let my hand linger on her cheek.

      She's completely still, barely breathing.

      "Riley." My voice comes out rough. "I think I'm—"

      But before I can finish, she jerks away. Scrambles off the car hood so fast she nearly falls.

      "I can't," she gasps. "I can't, I can't, I can't..."

      "Riley, wait—"

      "This isn't part of the deal." She's backing away, arms wrapped around herself. "This isn't... I'm supposed to help you, not..."

      "Not what?" I slide off the hood, taking a step toward her. She takes another step back. "Not feel something too?"

      "You don't understand." Her voice cracks. "I'm not... I can't be..."

      "Can't be what?"

      "Worth staying for!" The words explode out of her. "I'm supposed to show you reasons to live, not become one! I can't be responsible for... I can't handle..." She's shaking now. "I couldn't save them. What makes you think I could save you?"

      The stars above us seem to mock me now. All those facts she's shared about binary systems and gravitational pulls, about stars that orbit each other in perfect balance.

      But maybe that's the problem—there's nothing balanced about us. She gives and gives and gives, pouring herself into saving everyone else while keeping her own pain locked behind walls.

      I think about all the times I've seen her mask slip. The scars on her wrists that tell stories she won't share. The way she flinches at certain sounds, certain words, certain memories she pretends don't exist. How she pours so much love into caring for Lucy, like she's trying to make up for something—or someone—she couldn't save before.

      "Them?" I take another step forward. "Riley, who couldn't you save?"

      But she's already running.

      "Riley!"

      "I'm sorry," she calls back. "I'm so sorry. But I can't... I can't do this again."

      "Riley, wait!" I scramble off the hood. "You didn't drive here!"

      She's already gone.

      "Damn it." I grab my keys. "Riley! Get in the car! You're not walking home in the dark!"

      For a moment, there's only silence. Then, soft footsteps returning.

      She slides into the passenger seat without a word, curling into herself like she's trying to disappear.

      The drive back is painfully quiet. No star facts. No random theories about ice cream or milkshake flavours. Just the sound of her uneven breathing and my heart pounding in my chest.

      I pull up to her house, but she's out of the car before I can say anything else.

      Later, in my bed, I pull out my phone, staring at her contact information. The photo is from last week's game—she's wearing that ridiculous glitter-covered shirt again, mid-laugh at something Lucy said. I took it without her noticing, captured the moment before she realized someone was watching. Before her walls went back up.

      My thumb hovers over the call button. Rule number one: answer when I call or text.

      But what if she doesn't? What if this is the thing that finally makes her run for good?

      A month. That's all we have left before her birthday. Before she expects me to choose whether to stay or go. But she never said what she would choose.

      I think about the scars on her wrists. About the way she flinches when her phone rings. About the pain in her voice when she said "I couldn't save them."

      Who were they? What happened that made her decide to become everyone else's saviour?

      And why does falling in love with her feel like falling off that bridge?

      I dial her number before I can talk myself out of it. It rings once, twice, three times. Each ring feels like another star falling.

      She doesn't answer.

      I wait five minutes and try again. Still nothing.

      Me: Rule number one.

      The message shows as delivered but not read. I send another.

      Me: Remember what you said about binary stars? How they keep each other in orbit?

      Nothing.

      Me: You can't always be the saviour, Riley. Sometimes you have to let someone save you too.

      The typing dots appear, disappear, appear again.

      Riley: I destroy everything I touch.

      Me: I don't believe that.

      Riley: You should.

      Me: Why? Because you couldn't save someone before? Because you're scared of letting anyone close enough to see your scars?

      She doesn't respond for so long I think she's gone again.

      Riley: 27. That was the deal. Just 27 more days, and then...

Me: And then what? You disappear? Go find someone else to save while you're drowning?

Riley: I'm not drowning.

Me: Rule number three. Honesty about bad days.

Riley: I can't do this right now.

Me: Can't do what? Talk about feelings? Let someone care about you? What are you so afraid of?

The frustration builds until I have to get up, pacing my room like I can somehow walk away from these feelings. From the way she's become tangled in every part of my life. My phone feels heavy in my hand, weighted with all the things I want to say.

How do you tell someone they've become your reason for living without scaring them away? How do you convince someone who's built their whole identity around saving others that they deserve to be saved too?

I think about Lucy, about how freely she gives and accepts love. About how different Riley is with her sister—softer, more real, less afraid of being seen. Maybe that's what scares her most about this thing between us: that I see her too. Not just the savior she pretends to be, but the girl who draws stars to light her own darkness.

The typing dots appear and disappear several times.

Riley: Goodnight, Ethan.

I stare at the message. How can someone who sees through everyone else's walls be so determined to hide behind her own?

I send one last message.

Me: You're worth staying for, Riley Quinn. Whether you believe it or not.