STARS' DON'T GLOW ALONE

Prologue

They say the brightest stars are the ones that take the longest to form. They burn through darkness, endure pressure that would crush anything else, and only then do they shine bright enough to guide people home. I used to think that was just a fact I memorized from my science books, something pretty to whisper when Gavin and I lay on the grass at the old observatory, counting meteors until our eyes grew heavy. I never imagined I would have to become that star myself—alone, bleeding, terrified, and still refusing to go out.

I have known Gavin Elijah Santos for as long as I can remember.

Our mothers were best friends before we were even born. Our cribs sat side by side in the nursery of our church playgroup. We learned to walk chasing the same butterfly, fell off our bikes on the same pothole, and scraped our knees on the same rough concrete driveway. When I cried because I lost my favorite hair clip, Gavin gave me his very first toy car, the one his father brought him from abroad, saying, “It’s shiny. Look at it when you’re sad. It’ll remind you I’m here.” When he failed his math test in Grade 3 and hid behind the school building because he was afraid his dad would yell, I sat with him until sunset, sharing my packed lunch and rewriting every single formula until he finally smiled.

We were not just neighbors, or classmates, or best friends. We were two lines drawn on the same page, two halves of the same breath. Everyone who saw us growing up said the same thing: Those two are going to end up together. It’s written in the stars.

And for the longest time, I believed them too.

Gavin was always the kind of boy who looked like he belonged somewhere bigger than our quiet little town. He had that easy, quiet confidence, the kind that made people turn their heads when he walked into a room. His hair was always a little messy, like the wind had a favorite place to run its fingers through it, and his eyes were the color of warm dark honey—eyes that crinkled at the corners when he truly laughed, eyes that for years seemed to look only at me. He was good at sports, good at making people feel safe, good at keeping his promises. Or so I thought.

I was the one who carried notebooks full of star charts, who stayed up late reading about galaxies millions of lightyears away, who believed that some things really were meant to be, fixed in place forever just like the North Star. I loved how Gavin never made fun of that. He would sit beside me for hours, listening while I rambled about constellations and supernovas, and even when he did not understand half of what I said, he would nod and whisper, “Tell me more, Elara. I like how your eyes light up.”

We were sixteen when things shifted.

It happened on the night of our high school’s foundation day. The air smelled of popcorn and rain and fresh paint, and the string lights strung across the quadrangle turned everything soft and golden. We had snuck away from the crowd, climbing the narrow metal stairs to the school roof, just like we had done a hundred times before. But this time, when Gavin turned to face me, he did not talk about the basketball finals or his plans for college. He stepped closer, lifted a strand of hair away from my face, and said my name like it was something precious.

“Elara,” he breathed, “I think I’ve loved you since the day you tripped over your own shoelaces and fell right into my arms.”

My heart did not just beat faster—it felt like it broke open and spilled light everywhere. I remember how his hand felt when it laced through mine, warm and sure, how his shoulder leaned against mine like he was anchoring himself to the ground, how he kissed me slow and gentle, as if he knew I was something fragile he had to take care of.

For the next year and a half, we lived inside our own perfect little universe. We made plans that stretched so far into the future they almost felt real. We would go to the same university, he would study engineering, I would take astronomy. We would rent a small apartment with a balcony where we could set up a telescope. We would adopt a golden retriever, name him Nova, and watch him grow old alongside us. We would get married under the stars, have two or three kids, grow gray together, and still be the same two people who shared a lollipop on the playground fence.

Every promise he made, I held onto like it was written in stone. When we crossed the line we swore we would not cross until we were older, I did not feel regret. I felt safe. I felt certain. Because it was Gavin. Because he was the one person I thought would never, ever walk away when things got hard.

But certainty is the most fragile thing in the world. It can shatter into dust before you even realize you are holding it too tight.

The first sign that something was wrong came quietly. My head would spin when I stood up too fast. The smell of fried garlic, the scent I had loved my whole life, suddenly turned my stomach so violently I would have to run to the bathroom. I grew tired for no reason, yawning through morning classes even when I had slept ten hours straight. My usually steady hands shook when I held my pen, and deep down, in the quietest corner of my heart, a tiny, terrified voice whispered what I was too afraid to say out loud.

I waited three weeks before I bought the test. I hid it in the bottom of my school bag, tucked between old worksheets and my star chart notebook, too ashamed to even look at it until my parents had fallen asleep. I locked myself in the bathroom, my knees knocking together, and waited what felt like an eternity.

When I finally looked down, there were two clear, dark lines.

I remember staring at them for so long my vision blurred. A strange mix of joy and terror flooded my chest. This was not what we had planned. It was too soon, far too early. But these were ours. A piece of Gavin and a piece of me, growing where no one could see them yet. For a moment, I imagined telling him. I imagined his arms wrapping around me, his voice soft and warm, telling me we would figure it out together. I imagined him smiling, the way he always did when he looked at me, and saying, We’ll be okay, Elara. We’re a team.

I held onto that hope like a lifeline. I did not know then that some lines are drawn only to cut you deep.

I found him sitting on the wooden bench outside our gate, waiting for me like he did every afternoon. I sat beside him, pressing the small plastic stick into his hand, my fingers trembling so much I could barely hold it. “Gavin,” I said, my voice barely louder than the wind, “look. We’re going to be parents.”

I waited for the smile. I waited for the hug. I waited for the promise that everything would be alright.

Instead, his face drained of all color. His fingers loosened, and the test almost slipped from his grasp. He stared at it like it was something burning, something dirty, something he wanted nothing more than to throw as far away as he could.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head over and over again. “No, Elara. This can’t be happening. We have college. We have our plans. My dad will kill me. My whole future—your whole future—it’s all ruined.”

“Ruined?” I repeated, my throat closing up. “Gavin, it’s our baby. It’s not a mistake.”

He looked at me then, and for the first time in all the years I had known him, there was no warmth in his honey-colored eyes. There was only fear. Cold, sharp, selfish fear.

“It’s too much,” he said, standing up and stepping back like I had suddenly become a stranger. “We aren’t ready. We can’t raise a child. Not now. Not like this. Just… get rid of it, Elara. Please. I’ll pay for everything. Just fix this.”

Fix this.

Those two words echoed inside my head, louder than the thunder that started rumbling overhead, louder than the rain that suddenly poured down, soaking us both to the bone. Fix this. As if what was growing inside me was a stain, a broken object, something to be erased and forgotten. As if the heartbeat I could already feel faintly, the life we had made together, was nothing worth fighting for.

I looked down at my stomach, flat still, holding secrets even I had not yet learned. And in that moment, something inside me shifted forever. The girl who believed she needed someone else to shine, the girl who thought her whole world was tied to Gavin’s smile—she started to fade away. Standing there in the rain, cold and shivering and broken, I made the first promise I would ever keep entirely on my own.

I will not get rid of them. I will not throw them away. If no one else will choose us, then I will choose us both. I will choose them, every single day, no matter how hard it gets.

When I told him I would not do it, when I looked him in the eye and said I would carry them and raise them and love them even if I had to do it all alone, Gavin did not fight for me. He did not try to understand. He just turned around, walked through the pouring rain, and never looked back.

And that was only the beginning.

A few days later, when I found the courage to tell my own parents, I learned how cruel the world could be when you had nothing left to hide. I learned that blood does not always mean loyalty, that home is not always a shelter, that sometimes the people who should love you most are the very ones who slam the door in your face when you stumble. I packed one small bag, wearing the same clothes I had gone to school in, and stepped out into the street with nowhere to go, carrying nothing but my name, my courage, and two beating hearts that trusted me completely.

I did not know then that I was carrying twins. I did not know how heavy my body would grow, how many nights I would cry myself to sleep on a stranger’s floor, how many times I would go hungry just so the little lives inside me could be fed. I did not know how many people would turn away, how many doors would stay locked, how many times I would have to remind myself that I was still here, still breathing, still fighting.

But I also did not know how strong I was.

They say stars are born from chaos, from clouds of gas and dust colliding and burning until something bright finally breaks through. I would learn the truth of that, day by painful day. I would learn that love is not found in the promises someone makes when things are easy, but in the choice you make when there is no one left to lean on.

This is not the story I thought I would write. There are no gentle walks under streetlights, no shared dreams of university dorms, no boy holding my hand through every fear. This is the story of what happens when the sky falls, and you realize you have been strong enough to hold it up all along.

This is the story of Lance Andrei and Lyra Andrea. This is the story of how I stopped waiting for someone to shine for me… and learned to burn all on my own.