Evan Keane

‚Stargazing‘ (inspired by Myles Smith) They sat shoulder to shoulder on the hood of his old car, parked just outside the city where the streetlights began to fade. A playlist hummed quietly through the speakers — not loud enough to fill the silence, just enough to remind them they were still here, still real. Above, the sky stretched endless and alive, a thousand stars blinking slow and soft behind the thin haze of light pollution. He’d made a joke earlier about how you could barely see the stars anymore — “Guess they moved to the suburbs too.” It made them laugh, that easy, familiar kind of laugh that only existed between two people who had seen each other through every version of themselves. Neither of them spoke for a while after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because every word had already been lived — in late-night texts, in half-finished coffees, in years of being there without needing a name for it. When they finally did, it was quiet. “You know,” they murmured, eyes still on the sky, “you were right there all along.” He turned then, looked at them — really looked. And the smile that broke through wasn’t joy, not surprise, just something steady, something true. “I was waiting for you to notice,” he said, voice soft but teasing, because that’s who he was — the kind who hid tenderness behind a smirk. The night didn’t need to move after that. It simply held them — two old souls who had finally looked up and realized they’d been standing under the same stars the whole time. (28, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)