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“Shit,” I hiss through my teeth as the back door shuts just a little too hard. She’s not even home, but I’m still on edge. I wrap the cord of my headphones around my neck to keep my rapidly freezing fingers busy. Waiting for my eyes to adjust, I survey the sky above me. There’s a few clouds strolling over the stars, but the coming sky is perfectly clear, and the moon is thin like a blade. Perfect for stargazing. Visually, at least, but not atmospherically. I thrust my hands into my pockets.
With sight returning to me, I make my way to the side fence, careful not to crush any snails. Between the wooden fence and the old tree, the petrichor is almost overwhelming, so I take a moment to savour it. Rushing is entirely antithetical to everything I’m trying to do, here. I give the utility box a cautionary tap.
Pushing off from the fence to the box, the box to the tree, I’m able to pull myself up to the roof as I’ve done countless lonely nights before. The tiles scrape the soft skin of my palms, which stings like all hell in the cold wind. I crawl to the crease of the roof, and lie back. Only a few clouds are left now.
I unwind my headphones and slip them over my ears. They’re older than me, and the gentle padded pressure over my ears is bliss in itself, even in absolute silence. Especially in absolute silence, sometimes. I sit with that feeling, fiddling with the coil around the jack, before plugging in my mp3 player.
The guitar and bells wash over me, and I hold my breath until the drums roll in. I float away, lost between the music and the stars, the few thoughts on my mind regarding only Radio, bands, and… Carys.
We were 14. She brought me out here, by the tree, under the stars, a week or so after our birthday. I can almost see us crouching against the brick wall, the way I tried to press myself between it and her, the way I thought the soft summer breeze would settle into my bones all night if I couldn’t shield myself with her warmth.
She had an astrology book, one she’d snuck in. It could’ve been a library book, it could’ve been one she’d bought with her own money. But it was big, and fancy-looking, and the way it burnt, I’m not sure which would have been worse.
I try to spot the constellations she taught me, but only one ever stuck with me.
“And that is Leo, the lion. Ambitious, charismatic, confident. That’s our sign. Well,” she turned to look at me, with a smile that looked off, somehow. “I guess we split some of those traits.”
I never knew what she was really thinking.
The silence after the final ding pulls me back to now. I tear off the headphones, listen to the distant rumble of tyres on asphalt, slide back down off the gutter, turn out the lights.