2:16 PM

Tuesday. 9:34 PM.

The wind was a little bit too strong, a little bit too cold. I was afraid she would be uncomfortable. For a moment, I worried that she would get a cold, and a second later I chuckled while my eyes filled with tears. She could get all the colds in the world now, it wouldn’t really change anything. 

- What’s going on?

She had heard me laugh faintly.

- Nothing. I was just thinking about that ridiculous hat of mom’s you used to wear when you were little. 

She smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It had been a while since any smile of hers had. I think she knew that wasn’t really what had made me chuckle, but she didn’t insist. She looked back at the stars and rested her head on my shoulder. I heard her murmuring under her breath and figured she was naming the constellations, like she did every night when she was younger and I was teaching them to her. She shivered. 

- We should go back inside, I said, knowing very well I wasn't going to convince her. It’s too cold, and your doctor didn’t even want you going out in the first place.

- Just a few more minutes.

She paused. I knew what she was going to say next and it terrified me, but I couldn’t allow myself to be scared at the moment. I had to be strong. I had to. 

- You know this is probably the last time I get to see the sky, she whispered. I don’t care about being cold. 

I closed my eyes and fought back the tears. There was no way I would let her see me cry. I hadn’t cried once in front of her since we were little. I had especially not wanted to since the diagnostic and I would not start tonight, as she could finally do something she had wanted to do for the last time. I wrapped her tighter in my arms. 

- Guys, you have to come back inside now. 

It was her doctor. He had let us out on the balcony usually reserved for the staff on their breaks because she had been asking him for weeks if she could go out one night to see the stars. We all knew what it meant when he finally said yes. He didn’t need to protect her at all costs anymore. He could let her go outside even if it was going to harm her, because she wasn’t going to get better.

She got to see the stars, but the price for it was that we had lost all hope.

Wednesday. 3:15 AM. 

I used to love watching her sleep. When we were younger, I would sit by her bed when it wasn’t my bedtime yet so I could protect her from the monsters. Little did I know she might have been the one protecting me. It had taken knowing I was going to lose her to realize I always felt safer when she was in the room. 

I didn’t like watching her sleep anymore. She used to be so agitated, so talkative when she was asleep. On trips, when we shared a bed, she would kick me the entire night and I would resist the urge to push her off the bed and yank on the covers so hard she would have to sleep without them. Now she looked like an angel when she slept, as if her body knew it had to save every bit of its energy. 

I was trying not to think, to just look at her face long enough to never forget every line, every color of it. I was trying to block the memories, because they hurt too much. But I couldn’t. 

One year old. The first time she walked, I understood what it felt like to be proud for the first time. Her legs wiggled and she kept falling, but she could do it. She had walked up to me without any help, and I was proud. A little bit jealous too, because mom and dad had eyes only for her. But how could they not? I was jealous, but mostly proud.

Two years old. She talked better than a lot of kids her age, according to mom. She talked all. The. Time. She pointed at things and named them. She asked mom and dad about everything she was able to say. She held things she didn’t know what to call and brought them to me so I would tell her their name. It was annoying, sometimes. But I’d always help her because I felt like it was my duty to help teach her about the world.

Three years old. Mom had found an old purple hat that she wore as a child and had wore it for a few minutes as a joke, until she stole it from her and refused to take it off. It was the ugliest thing in the world, it was way too big, it hid her eyes and she could barely see where she was going when she was wearing it. But for weeks she wouldn’t take it off. I think she liked the idea of being like mom. Of being a big girl. But she was still a baby to me. 

Four years old. I was getting older, more annoyed at the little sister who wouldn’t stop following me everywhere. Was she going to leave me alone eventually? She talked even more now. Sometimes I would hide from her and she would cry. It usually only took a few minutes before I felt bad and went to pick her up in my arms. Then she would look up at me, her eyes full of tears, and smile. And I couldn’t remember why I had been hiding.

Five years old. That was the first time I remember her seeing me cry. I hardly ever cried, but that time it just hurt too much. I came back in the house holding my broken arm, unable to hold back the tears, calling for my parents. She was the one who saw me first and when she saw me cry, she started crying too. That day, I swore to myself not to cry in front of her ever again. I’ve always kept that promise.

Six years old. I remember Dad taking me to a ball game and I was so happy. But then he brought her too and I felt as jealous as I ever had. I could never have my parents just for me anymore. She was always around. When the popcorn guy walked by, I still took out my pocket money. I didn’t like popcorn, but she loved it.

Seven years old. That was the year I discovered my passion for astronomy. A lot of nights, she would sneak out off her room and join me in mine where mom and dad had set up a telescope. That year started the constellation-naming tradition.

Eight years old. She got sick for the first time. That was one of the worst years of my life. She was always exhausted, always a little bit sad. She eventually spent months in the hospital and I went to see her everyday. It wasn’t exactly my sister, though. It was a paler, more tired, less bright version of her. I would have done anything to bring her back.

Nine years old. She was all better. The doctors had cured her entirely. They told us she wasn’t sick anymore. I didn’t need to remember anything else from that year. That was the happiest memory in the world.

Ten years old. She went away for a week to a summer camp. She was so excited to leave and I was happy for her. But while she was gone, I realized what it was like not to have her follow me around, asking me questions about the stars and trying to do everything I was doing. And I missed her. It was just one week, but it felt like eternity. 

Eleven years old. We weren’t that close during that year. Not because we didn’t want to, but because as we grew older, our lives became different. I spent time with my friends, she spent time with hers. We spent time alone in our rooms like a normal teenager and pre-teenager would. Yet almost every night, she would come look at the stars with me in my room. 

Twelve years old. She got sick again. My parents had to hold me down after I flew into a rage because I couldn’t believe it. The doctor had told us that she was okay, that she wasn’t sick anymore. She was hospitalized and from that moment, her doctors never let her out of the hospital. Most nights, I went to bed without watching the stars.

Thirteen years old. I was sitting by her hospital bed and watching her sleep. Tears were silently running down my face, heavy as waterfalls. As long as she didn’t wake up and hear me. I didn’t mind crying, I just didn’t want to in front of her. I couldn’t bear to hurt her. 

Thursday. 2:16 PM. 

Her eyes were closed. It had happened quickly, silently, peacefully. And painlessly, according to her doctor. I knew, deep down, that she had waited until she had seen the stars once more. I let my parents take me out of the room after hours of clutching her hand in mine. If it weren’t for them, I would still be holding it. I would never let go. 

Friday. 11:27 PM. Two weeks later.

I had been laying outside for hours. I knew it was cold, but I couldn’t feel anything. It was the first time I watched the stars since she had left. I couldn’t bring myself to before that. It was her thing, our thing. I didn’t know if I could handle doing it without her.

I looked up and started naming the constellations. And suddenly, on the far right, I could see a small star, a new one. I had never seen it and I knew the sky as well as someone could when they had been watching it their whole life.

I had never believed in that stuff. And yet I knew. I could feel it. Somehow that star was her. Or she was that star. She had become the thing she and I loved most in the world. From now on, it was her who was watching over me. I closed my eyes and this time, I didn’t not fight back the tears. It would be the first time I cried in front of her.