Eli, a quiet young man with tired eyes and tousled hair, lies awake on his creased bedsheets, staring at the ceiling. The weight of invisible worries presses upon him, his face half-bathed in the golden glow of a small bedside lamp. The silence feels thick, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket, and the clock's ticking marks the slow, aching passage of another sleepless night.
Eli sits up, rubbing his eyes and gazing out the window. His reflection merges with the night, and questions swirl in his mind—about purpose, about failure, about the emptiness that never seems to fade. He whispers into the quiet, "Why can’t I just let go? Why does the night always feel so endless?" No answer comes, only the soft patter of rain.
Eli blinks in disbelief as the star shimmers, its form flickering between a sphere of light and a gentle, glowing companion with kind, expressive features. The room seems to breathe with hope, the air humming with quiet magic. Lumen, the gentle star, radiates warmth that melts the chill from the air.
"You’re not alone tonight," the star’s voice is soft and melodious, barely more than a whisper. Eli hesitates, then sits beside the windowsill, drawn to the gentle presence. "Are you real? Or am I just dreaming?"
"Does it matter?" Lumen replies, their light shimmering with kindness. "I’m here to listen. Tell me your worries, and let the night slow down together."
"Most nights, I feel like I’m not enough," Eli confesses, voice trembling but honest. "You are enough, simply because you are. Sadness is not a flaw. It’s a companion, like the night itself—something to hold, not something to fear." The star’s words settle gently around him, their warmth easing the ache inside.
Eli closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. He doesn’t feel cured, but he feels comforted—held by the memory of gentle words and the promise that he is not alone. As sunlight warms his face, he finally drifts into restful sleep, the echo of starlight lingering in his dreams, healing and serene.
