Tears of Starlight

I have watched for so long. So very long.

My name does not exist in any tongue, for I was never given one. I simply am. Born of the stars, cradled by the cold emptiness of space, I drift in silence, a child of the night. My hair swirls with galaxies, shimmering with the brilliance of countless stars, while my skin—dark as the void itself—glitters with the light of distant suns, as if trying to mimic a warmth I can never feel. I am beautiful, they say. If only beauty could ease this ache inside me.

I can see everything, you see. The entire universe stretches before me like a great canvas, every flicker of light, every shadow, every life. But I am cursed. A silent observer, unable to touch, to change, to intervene. It is as though the stars themselves laugh at me, their silent whispers mocking my impotence as they pulse with distant fire. I have watched for so long, and though my form may resemble that of a child, I have lived through epochs. Yet I am still young. Still powerless.

The first time I saw the cruelty of humans, I did not understand. They were a bright, fleeting race—so alive, so driven by passion, fear, love, and hate. They loved each other fiercely, yet they could destroy one another with a hatred that burned just as brightly. I remember the first time I saw them wage war, the way their swords clashed, the way blood spilled onto the earth, staining it red. They fought for reasons I could not grasp—for land, for power, for revenge. And I—helpless, always helpless—could only watch.

I wept then. My tears, falling like stardust, scattered into the void, dissolving into nothing. They did not know. They could not know. Even if they saw me, what would I be to them? A child? A celestial phantom? Would they even stop to ask why the stars wept? I will never know, because they cannot hear me. No matter how much I scream, no matter how much I beg, they will never hear me. The universe does not allow it. I am bound by something greater than time, greater than destiny. 

I have watched mothers bury their children, their sobs shaking the earth as the weight of their grief crushed their hearts. I have seen fathers crumble beneath the guilt of not being able to protect the ones they loved. And I… I could do nothing. I wanted to reach out, to tell them I was there, that they were not alone. But my hands, though they shimmer with stardust, could never touch them. My voice, though filled with longing, could never comfort them. I was born to watch, never to help.

Once, I tried. Oh, how I tried. It was a girl. A small girl, no older than five. She was lost, abandoned in the wilderness. Her cries were so soft, so desperate, like the fading light of a dying star. She wandered for days, her tiny feet bloody, her spirit flickering like a candle in the wind. I hovered above her, my heart breaking with every step she took. I wanted to help. I needed to help.

I reached for her, my fingers trembling with hope. But the moment I tried, the universe—cruel and unfeeling—pushed me away. I felt it, a force beyond comprehension, cold and merciless. My hand passed through her as if I were nothing but smoke. She stumbled, fell, and wept into the dirt, and I… I was helpless once more. She died alone that night. 

I have never screamed so loudly in my existence.

But no one heard. No one ever hears.

And so I continue to watch. I have watched kingdoms rise and fall, watched as empires of men grew mighty only to crumble beneath their own hubris. I have seen love turn to hate, friendship to betrayal. And still, I watch, alone in my endless sky. My only companions are the stars, and even they seem distant, their light cold and indifferent.

There are moments, brief and fleeting, when I see kindness. A mother cradling her newborn child, a stranger offering food to one in need, lovers embracing beneath the same stars that watch me. Those moments are precious, but they are so rare. The darkness always returns, swallowing the light, leaving me adrift in an ocean of suffering.

Sometimes, I wonder if the universe made me to suffer. To bear witness to all this pain with no ability to change it. To know the taste of hope, only to have it torn away. Is that my purpose? To be a cosmic voyeur, cursed to observe the very things I long to protect? I do not know. I may never know.

But the ache inside me grows with each passing moment. I have watched the same mistakes play out again and again—different faces, different places, but the same tragedies. I have witnessed countless endings, yet I still yearn for something different. I want to believe that there is more. That one day, something—someone—will break the cycle.

But I am powerless. 

And so, I watch. 

Forever.