soulmates aren’t real and you don’t need to hold hands to love someone
my dream girl don’t exist

An undocumentable amount of time ago, a star so beautiful and strong glowed and slept happy for an eternity before it peacefully exploded, sending it’s fragments and decibels flying all around the galaxies and into the vastness beyond anything anybody here knows. The dust was shattered, it sparkled in sizes ranging from larger than the planets to smaller than one thousandth of a ladybug. It was past anything humans will ever see, it exists in such a boundless fervor. The energy from the explosion embodied the stars particles in plants and lakes, and planets and animals. The star would think about things beyond our comprehension, being a star and existing so far away, she isn’t even comparable to someone with a human body. She existed in the loudest, highest and gentle noises that sounded closest to harps, or saws, or synths. She was infinite, and she exists, just like all of the other countless stars that died for the universe around us.
She was a doe, so unbelievably long ago, with a handsome buck, who’d explore the untouched valleys and forests together. They could see the sky, and because light pollution is a very new thing, at all hours the stars and galaxies above them made for a constant, brilliant painting, so deep with colors and sparkling lights of varying sizes, sprawled around us as far as we could ever see. They would sit by the creeks and listen to the noise the wind made as it passed through the plant life like chimes around them, the birds’ sweet singing voices, and the stars twinkling infinitely. They ate strawberries off of branches and nested in the flowers, and as deer do, eventually fell asleep together, and became a part of the plants that grew where they once nestled. The particles that made up their soft fur was finally released back to where they came from, and returned to the space made up by other pieces of themselves, to rest and wait to be assembled gracefully again.
Next she found herself to be a flower, with so many petals, colored in shades of pink, red, and white. A flower that grew in the climbing ivy that hugged a warm willow tree. The tree supported her, being the base of her existence, and the thing she grew upon, she grew so tall and tied herself around all of his branches. Countless owls would fill the branches and make the willow tree their home, but they were incredibly mindful not to hurt her veins, and provided the willow tree and his ivy with hoots of lullaby every-night. The tree lived 100 years, very long for a willow, and eventually became too large to support himself, and despite the ivy’s efforts, began to wilt and cave. The owls had long abandoned them, and the tree was cut down to be made into wood and paper, and the area’s entire populus of flowers to be used for dye. The star’s fragments went home again, and slept patiently again, but in the vicinity of the other, as they did as a tree and ivy, and as they did as deer.
The flower-doe stood on her tippy-toes against a barlike railing, as she’d been doing everyday for the best of 17 years. Dressed loosy in ghostly pink fabric that flowed around her like water, moving slowly and gracefully to a record player’s scratchy warmth. In the mirror before her a crown of rosy, golden hair covered most of her thin body, and in her galaxy eyes. A mousy newsboy in boots and a leafy green overcoat tapped on the window, his messenger bag curiously full. The ballerina opened the window to let him slip in the empty studio, as he gave her a tissue-wrapped dress of pink and white floral print. She smiled with her whole heart as the newsboy displayed the deerskin journal he’d saved for for so long. He issued from his bag a quill, with which he wrote in pristine cursive. At 18 the following spring, after having parted with the newsboy for 3 months, the ballerina would die of hysteria, and 2 months following that, the newsboy would find himself caught in a devastating storm. The book would sit in the bottom drawer of a desk at a printer’s press, and the dress would be donated to a church with the rest of her clothes. Having never really relieved herself of him, the stars found herself immensely comforted by his eventual apologetic return to her embrace.
They’d decided they wanted to go back again, to try it again, to see how long they’d last. A girl of about 16 walked through the soft snow outside of a church after it’s services, wrapped in warm sweaters and scarves, holding a large aluminum saw and 2 violin bows. She read off of a letter and looks up to find a boy wearing bottle-cap glasses that magnified his eyes like a bug’s holding a violin in his mittens. They found through a pen-pal service that they shared a curiosity and connection to old things, and would adventure together in attics and antique stores, gathering a lot of pretty and interesting looking collections. The bug-eyed boy kept that saw, and every bottle cap she would give him, and the sweater girl would keep every poem and paper flower he’d give to her. The word seemed to change so much for the length of their lives, and by the time of their passing, they’d accrued so much of a hoard that their son was so overwhelmed as to what to do with it all; there was no use in keeping old saws and dusty journals. Even though the stars were happy to be home, they’d started to miss all of the other fragments, who’d followed in their footsteps. When they were the newsboy and the ballerina and the violinist and the bug-eyed saw player, they could spend time around the other bits of the star they came from, their friends they would leave behind. When the stars’ partner decided it was time to go again, she still wanted to say. She would tell him how much better she liked it not being trapped in a body, and how much she was tired, but he wouldn’t let her wait for him. He told her he would be there, and he would protect her, and from November, he waited 3 months for her.

A rosey girl in a floral print dress and warm sweater walks down a high-school hallway, gripping an aluminum pin in her sweaty palms. Her mousy penpal with glasses and a wooden guitar sleeping safely in its case waits for her at the top of a staircase.