Fleeting stars

Four years have passed since the world I once knew collapsed into ruin. I am sixteen now, standing on the edge of survival, and yet, I am still here. Not because of fate. Not because of mercy. But because of him.

Sung Kim's teachings were the embers that refused to die, flickering in the darkness long after he was gone. Every trick he showed me, every harsh lesson, every quiet moment of laughter between battles—I carried them all. I never imagined that his survival tactics, once shared with an easy smile, would become my lifeline. And yet, when death came for him, it took him without hesitation, leaving me stranded in a world that felt colder than ever before.

With nowhere else to go, I was thrown into a survivor's camp—a place where those who refused to die were forced to live.

At first, the camp was a strange purgatory, caught between despair and routine. The wound of losing Sung Kim was still fresh, a searing pain that no amount of time could numb. Adjusting felt impossible. But grief does not feed you. Loss does not keep you warm. So, like everyone else, I hardened myself.

The camp functioned like a machine, and every piece had its role. The adults hunted, cooked, and tended to the sick. The younger children, aged 8-13, were assigned to care for the toddlers, teaching them how to survive in a world that no longer cradled innocence. Those of us aged 14-17 were given the most dangerous task—the B-Zone.

A wasteland. A graveyard of a past civilization, choked with the bones of fallen buildings and the rusted corpses of vehicles long abandoned. The remnants of a war that had ended, though its destruction never ceased.

We were sent to scavenge.

But the B-Zone was not as lifeless as it seemed. It watched, it whispered, it threatened. The wind howled through hollowed-out buildings, and the air carried a silence so heavy it felt like the ghosts of the past were holding their breath.

"I don't think any of this junk is even useful," a voice muttered beside me, cutting through the eerie stillness.

Jerry.

A boy with unkempt blond hair and a face that perpetually screamed I want to go home. He was assigned to me a few weeks ago—a mystery without a past. No one knew his real name. No one knew where he came from. So we gave him one. Jerry. And strangely, he accepted it without hesitation.

I glanced at him, unimpressed.

"Don't give me that look," he shot back, his expression mirroring my own exhaustion. "I know you hate this as much as I do."

He wasn't wrong. But admitting it wouldn't change anything.

By sunset, we returned to the camp, our arms filled with scrap metal and debris that felt more like dead weight than salvageable material.

"We're back!" I called out, my voice carrying across the camp.

A woman emerged from a nearby tent, her reddish-brown dress stained with something I desperately hoped was just dirt. Her sharp eyes flicked over our haul, and she let out a dramatic sigh.

"That's all you brought? Are you sure you didn't just slack off?"

"Hey! We worked really hard!" Jerry exclaimed, his voice nearly making me flinch.

Ignoring him, I turned to her. "Is Beak Lin in the workshop? I don't want to carry this crap any longer than necessary."

"She's not back yet, but just dump it there," the woman replied, gesturing toward the familiar tent.

I didn't need to be told twice. Without hesitation, I dumped the scraps and turned to leave—only to be stopped by Jerry blocking my way.

"You just left me behind! And completely ignored me when I called you!" He fumed, crossing his arms.

I stared at him, unimpressed. "What do you want?"

"…Are you free tonight?" His voice softened, the irritation slipping away.

I narrowed my eyes. "For what?"

"I want to watch the stars," he admitted. "But it's too lonely by myself."

I hesitated. There was something in his voice—something unguarded.

"…Fine."

Later that night, we sat on a small hill overlooking the camp. Above us, the sky stretched infinitely, an ocean of light spilling across the darkness. The stars shimmered—cold, distant, yet strangely comforting.

"They're beautiful," I murmured, allowing a rare smile to tug at my lips.

"Yes," Jerry said, his voice quieter than usual. "But how can I focus on them when the brightest one is right next to me?"

I turned to him, stunned into silence. His usual dramatic flair was there, but beneath it… sincerity.

He lay back, staring at the sky as if searching for answers in the constellations. "I don't remember anything before this camp," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "No past. No family. Nothing." A pause. Then, with a faint, almost bittersweet smile, he added, "Maybe that's for the best. At least this way… my first and most precious memories are with you."

My breath hitched.

For a moment, I didn't know what to say.

I looked back at the sky, my fingers curling into the grass. "Then let's make more of them," I said, my voice steady.

Jerry sat up, looking at me with something unreadable in his eyes. Then, he smirked. "You're such a weirdo sometimes."

"Shut up," I muttered, punching his arm lightly.

"Hey! What was that for?" he yelped, rubbing his arm with an exaggerated pout.

The night stretched on, filled with Jerry's endless teasing and my reluctant laughter. And for the first time in a long time, the crushing weight of survival felt a little lighter.

I knew better than to believe in peace. I knew better than to trust happiness.

But in that fleeting moment, beneath the vast expanse of the sky, I hoped.

And I prayed that the world would not take this away from me, too.