Underneath a Sky of Falling Stars

Once upon a time, there was a star named A—”

“A?” Erin shook her head. “See, this is why you don't tell stories. That’s a literal letter. Out of every name in the world, you choose A.”

Leslie shrugged. “Lots of stars are named with things we wouldn’t name people. Also, you never know—maybe there really is a star named A. Or another singular letter.”

“But it’s a story I want to understand. Just say Hannah or something. Not like it’s homework or something.”

“There was a star named A that one day, fell out of the sky—”

“But why? I’m sure stars don’t fall out of the sky for no reason.” Erin gestured wildly with her hands. “Was there an accident? Was the star dying or something? An ancient evil? Gimme sustenance!”

“Just listen!” Leslie sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Yes, there actually was an evil force that’s behind the falling of the star. It fell to earth and was confined to a human body. It lost its sibling in the crossfire, as well as other loved ones. It’s hard to explain, since a lot of things stars do can’t be confined to human concepts.”

“It’s fiction. Make it up. Also, ‘human concepts’? I should have figured your story would have been based on current events.”

“This has nothing to do with the meteorite. For one, it’s not a star that fell, but rock. Most of it is scattered across the atmosphere anyway. Probably burned up and gone.” Which was technically true. Stars are big balls of gas and minerals. Nothing more, nothing less. Least of all should her fictional story that she completely made up somehow reign true. “Now, onto the actual story.”

“Okay, okay.” Erin stretched out on her place in the grass. “You can start.”

“It all started when A went to Sun for a visit to relay a message, since B—that ‘sibling’ I was referring to—couldn’t make it. Sun wasn’t shining as bright as it usually did, but A never thought to be concerned over it . . . “

Sun dulled its shine as A approached it. Could it be that Sun realized that A wasn’t exactly B, but a different star? A wasn’t exactly twinkling, but it knew it was a rather bright star, so that could be the reason. B usually made these kinds of trips because it could afford the time to travel the extra light-years, but recently B has been busy, bending those very lightyears to run errands. With that, A went instead. It knew how much B visited Sun, and didn’t want B to run itself dimmer trying to do everything. Everything must be perfect, even when it already seems so.

A drew closer and began to glow. It started slowly, matching B for a bit before brightening up. A began to twinkle—bright, brighter, then nearly at its brightest—then dulled down. It had to show that it wasn’t B someway.

In turn, Sun dulled its light. It went down, cool and cooler and then even cooler—almost to the point in which it looked cooler than it ever had in the past, but A didn’t know Sun nearly as well to make such assumptions—and then it brightened again. Acceptance.

Sun was a rather lonely star—working to keep its little planets on track. Not out of companionship, like with A and B. No, instead a guiding light—something other than what A is for Earth—leading planets with an everlasting shine, even with the furthest, littlest planet. Sun shone again, and A twinkled in response.

And if, for some reason, Sun didn’t reach A’s expectations of shine based on B’s information—how the light of Sun was supposed to be different from the light of other stars—then A never thought to prioritize it. 

Which inevitably was the beginning of A’s downfall.

Literally.

(“So then A went back to B to tell—well, shine since talking didn’t exist among stars—that all was well with Sun. Again, it never thought too much about the dimming, since everything in the Universe is planned to a startling degree, including when they’re supposed to dim . . . “)

A twinkled in the dark emptiness, drawing the attention of B. It just returned from its long errands of planning—where new stars should go and dying ones should be positioned. Where black holes and neutron stars should go, and for how long. Things that won’t come into play until after B moves on and Sun swallows some of its planets in its pursuit of growth, glowing red. However, a red Sun wasn’t for light years ahead, so no need for further planning regarding its system.

So A twinkled again, and this time it stitched together the communication between A and Sun, about Mercury and Venus and Earth and Mars. There was also Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and Neptune—and oh, don’t forget about Pluto, either. About drifting rocks and floating planets, everything delicately spinning around Sun. All was well, and nothing was drifting away from how things were planned.

A and B . . . they trusted one another, and have been since they were formed. A and B had a different kind of companionship than B and Sun, and even a different form of companionship than the ones between them and the other stars of Alpha. They often—which, for other beings that weren’t stars, isn’t often at all—relayed messages to one another as well as simply basked in their lights. 

B wasn’t as bright as A, and because of that A was away more than B, often working while B worked on planning. Regardless, they stuck together and trusted one another in a pure-hearted way, to put it simply.

A didn’t include the odd absence of warmth (in the odd, organic definition), nor did it find the need to. 

Especially since it wasn’t very important.

(“ . . . so know about that ancient evil? It comes into play now . . . “)

Orion was the first constellation to notice the tear in the fabric of the Universe. Well, the first within a reasonable distance.

A’s constellation—Alpha Canis Major—was notified not much later, when Adhara happened to be notified first from Betelgeuse. From there, the information spread quickly—A could only really compare it to a supernova with the quickness. Soon the entire Milky Way was on edge, from stars to the planets. A wouldn’t be surprised if the terrestrial lifeforms somehow figured it out. 

The tear was located near Sagittarius A—not the constellation, but the black hole—in the center of the Milky Way. The thing was, the tear itself wasn’t affected by the supermassive black hole. In fact, it seemed as if the Sagittarius A was the one affected by that tear, which was unheard of. Stars shine and communicate within the Universe, dark energy grows and expands the Universe, and black holes suck things out of the Universe, including light itself. It had always been like that, from the very beginning. 

Now, if sources were correct, then Sagittarius A seemed to be the one to slowly be disappearing as the tear continued to grow. The Milky Way was vibrating with activity, trying to make sure everything stayed in order while getting rid of the tear. Trying to desperately keep things in order.

Eventually—begrudgingly—they had to reach out to Andromeda for aid.

(“Like, you know, a call for help—something like that. And as for the rips—imagine you have a tear in your backpack—”

“So things are falling out of the universe?” Erin asked.

“No . . . think of it as things falling through the universe and into something even more unknown. Something that keeps growing.”

“Sounds weird.”

“I’m a weird person.”)

Another tear appeared, this time near the edge of the Milky Way. There were fewer stars and planets to damage, but there was dark matter, which was another travesty. Stars either traveled more often to bring news or not at all to preserve their constellations or placement. Sun seemed especially worried, B trying its best to reassure the elder that things were getting fixed. Not even the oldest of stars have seen something like this, and it was starting to wear down on the Milky Way itself. 

Regardless, A and B had to travel more often (which, A quickly found out, was possible even with their already busy workload) due to the changes because they were Sirius, and they provided more stability with their form of communication than the rest of Alpha. After all, A and B were two halves of an exceptional star. 

All the while, A realized that whenever a star was sent to Andromeda for guidance, it didn't seem to return. 

(“They aren’t returning because they’re . . . falling through the universe?”

“Right! Like they’re going to a new place.”

“So like different dimensions?”

“Hmm . . . I guess the multiverse works. Except a much more twisted, dangerous version of our universe is out there somewhere, trying to take over ours. Like a virus.”

“Oh.”)

At one point, stars started to dim.

Dimming was a natural part of a star’s cycle—something that’s expected of them. Natural for every star. At one point the cores no longer were what they once were and they started to dim. Dimming didn’t signal the end of their lives as much as it signaled the beginning of what came after, from becoming a black hole to a white dwarf to a supernova. It all gets planned and positioned, from the time to the place, but it happens all the same.

None of the dimmings was planned.

Especially not Sun’s.

It started abruptly—almost slower than usual as if something was savoring the way things were coming undone—and was noticed even later. Between communicating, changing plans, and trying to be the best stars and constellations they can be, Alpha was as busy as Orion, who was also as busy as Ara and Cassiopeia and everything in between. Even the stray stars that belonged to no particular constellation couldn’t just do nothing. 

Sirius may be younger than Sun, but the latter wasn’t nearly far enough in development to even start dimming too much. Even when it starts to glow red, it will grow bigger and slightly cooler, but that wasn’t even close to the present. Now, Sun needed to remain a smaller, yellow star. It was for the best.

And then it started to dim and flicker. Not a lot—not even enough for the lifeforms on Earth to notice—but enough for the surrounding planets to notice and immediately spread the news. Stars were dimming left and right, losing their shine—their twinkle—that let them communicate. What were stars if they couldn’t communicate to the rest of the Universe?

B was the first one to reach Sun and it was all the same: its shine suddenly decreasing, its energy fluctuating, and its presence suddenly less than what it should be. As if an outside force was invading them, taking for what they have bit by bit. 

It was different, this time around. The dimming. It was so close this time, not in the middle of the Milky Way or at the edge of it. It wasn’t near another constellation Alpha barely interacted with, either. It was with Sun, the star that carried its planets and couldn’t go because if it did, then what would happen to its planets? Every one of them will change rapidly, and Earth’s life forms will surely start to die out at an astonishing rate. Pluto will no longer have the support it needed and do who knows what.

And—and—and—

And it all circled back to those mysterious tears.

A and B no longer were much further from one another than a couple of light years after that.

(“Sirius?”

“Both A and B. Sirius is a binary star system with two stars, which is also why I say that A and B are siblings. A is far brighter than the other, and therefore plays a slightly bigger role in the Universe, but they’re close to one another regardless. Well, A was bright until . . . “)

A was starting to dim. 

No, it was doing more than dimming. It was fading. Losing the right to stay in the Universe. It was watching as it all unraveled, from lightyears to black holes to quasars to the lack of communication to the decreasing number of stars to the increasing number of tears. Tears increased by the dozens, some millions of lightyears apart while others were less than one light year apart. They varied in shape, size, and length. 

Planets were starting to disintegrate, simply dissolving into nearly nothing and then going through the tear to never be seen again. Stars were disappearing without so much as a soft light remaining. Dark matter was slowing down, no longer speeding up. Black holes were shrinking until they too disappeared. What was once orderly turned chaotic quickly. 

And then—

There was another tear. Right in the middle of Alpha. 

Right where A was—

And then A was fading faster than ever before. And then the Universe looked to be collapsing in on itself. And then Adhara and Wezen drifted away, trying to save what’s left of the constellation. It was what the Milky Way came to: trying to preserve what was left and trying to rebuild it all constantly. Trying to salvage what could be saved. Trying instead of succeeding.

And while A was a bright star, one that twinkled and shone better than many, it wasn’t enough to combat a tear, something communicated so much yet is known so little about. 

And then B was there.

And it pushed A away. Away away away it went, shooting somewhere new, somewhere away from Alpha, away from the tear, away from B.

And B, dear B, the other half to A, they have been together through formation and development and expansion and shrinking and wanted to continue to do so until they become supernovas or black holes or neutron stars because they were two halves of what made Sirius. B couldn’t do much without A. A couldn't do much without B.

And then B was gone. Gone and—

And then A’s surroundings twisted. It could perceive more dimming stars. More collapsing planets. More tears that threaten the Universe. 

Its home, its life, its work. Its everything.

And then A knew no more.

(“So then it crashed on Earth?”)

A does not know how to talk. A was a star, who twinkled and shone and was a beacon. Sirius was an even bigger beacon. Sun is an even bigger beacon than Sirius. 

But now, A crouches on Earth, flesh scraping the ground—flesh, A has a body now. Something organic and vulnerable. Possible explanations flee A’s mind—and tears beading down cheeks. The Universe kissed her skin as she fell as if giving her a final goodbye—her skin being as dark as night and hair as bright as her light. Despite this, she’s now so dull without her light and is so loud instead. Confined to a body—to a cage in which the first thing she does upon realization is wail in anguish. 

She’s alone, she's alone, away from all that she’s known, her fellow stars dimming and who knows what else. She no longer shines, a trembling, cold pit where she used to glow. She’s carved out—empty and devoid of everything that made her existence worth indulging. Given flesh and blood—reduced to a point of insignificance on a planet that’s ever-changing and is slowly dying. (She wails louder and louder and louder—) She can now touch and taste and hear and feel—feel Earth underneath her fingertips and remember the tear less than five lightyears away from her current destination and can’t help but to tremble.

She screams louder, her hands and feet in the dirt, and ignores the sounds (so loud—has Earth always been this loud?) around her. 

She fell to Earth and has no idea how to prevent the Universe itself from collapsing from the tears infecting it. 

“ . . . and that’s it.”

“What?!” Erin shouts, “That’s not a good ending! What about the tears? Is this supposed to lead up to that meteorite? What happened to B after that—”

“Uh—well—” Leslie stumbles over her words, trying in vain to come up with an explanation for lack of content. “Well, it’s just the story of how A fell from her home. Again, the meteorite may have inspired this story—”

“I knew it!” she shouts.

“—but still, it’s purely fictional. I mean, I can come up with more for it—” She could, but she doesn’t have anything now. “—but I think her beginning is just as important as her end. She’s the hero and all, but she’s also sad that she’s alone. That at least deserves some form of acknowledgment, right?”