TERMINAL STARS

“How did it feel… when your mom died?” I asked, not looking at Ali. We were lying side by side in his family’s backyard garden, the night sky stretching above us, stars scattered like shards of glass.

He paused, his eyes fixed on the stars. “They didn’t even let me see her body,” he began quietly. “I wanted to… even if it was broken, bloody, incomplete. I didn’t care. I just needed to see her one last time.” His voice shaked for a moment, but he pressed on. “When Aabe told me, he just said, ‘Mama died in a plane crash.’ And I… I asked him, ‘Where is she?’” He stopped, swallowing hard. I turned to look at him. His eyes were dry, but he wore a sad smile—a smile that spoke of a grief too heavy for words.

I stayed silent, letting him continue.