Page 13 of June

She was sitting by the window when we walked in, her silver hair spun like stardust in the soft light. The pale sun caught in the strands, lighting her up like the edge of a moonrise. Her eyes—startling blue, the same as Liam's—lifted when she saw him, wide and gleaming with a kind of wonder I didn't expect.

"Richard,"

she whispered, as if saying his name would bring him closer. Her hand, delicate and shaking, reached out across the light between them.

"You came back."

Liam's smile was soft. Not just gentle—soft like memory, like a photograph that's been touched too many times. He moved toward her slowly, like he didn't want to disturb the orbit of her world.

"Of course I did,"

he murmured, kneeling beside her.

"I promised, didn't I?"

I hovered in the doorway, a bystander in someone else's galaxy.

"I thought maybe you'd gotten lost again,"

she said.

"You always traveled so far. You loved the stars too much to stay grounded."

He laughed—just barely.

"I did. But I always knew I'd find my way back to you."

She beamed. Then, as if sensing me out of the corner of her fading memory, she turned.

"And who's this beautiful girl?"

Liam glanced back at me, almost embarrassed.

"This is June. A friend."

She blinked, considering.

"Like the month?"

I stepped forward. "Exactly."

"Lovely,"

she said, with an air of certainty.

"she looks beautiful."

"I think she does,"

Liam said softly, brushing a loose wisp of hair from his mother's temple. "

and she's kind."

She nodded, satisfied.

"Bring her around again."

"I will."

He kissed her knuckles like she was royalty.

"But now, I think it's time you rest your starlit mind."

She sighed, already sinking into sleep.

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

"Always."

He tucked the blanket gently around her shoulders, like gravity was something he could protect her from. Then he leaned in, kissed her forehead like a vow, and stood.

We walked out in silence, not toward the exit but into a quiet side room. Liam dropped onto one of the worn-out couches and exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for years.

"She's had Alzheimer's for more than a decade,"

he said, staring at nothing.

"At first, it was small things. Time slipping sideways. Her world shrinking. Then faces. Names. Me."

He rubbed at his face with both hands.

"Now she thinks I'm him. My father. Richard. He died before I was born—military mission overseas. My mom never let go of him. Not once. It was like... like her heart decided to keep orbiting a star that had already gone dark."

"That's not just love,"

I whispered.

"That's... something more."

"Devotion,"

he murmured.

"Or madness. The lines blur after a while."

He didn't look at me when he said it. His eyes were fixed ahead, on something I couldn't see. Or maybe something he could no longer reach.

"She was a nurse here. Helped families say goodbye, held hands through grief. And now..."

His voice cracked.

"...now she's the one disappearing."

My chest tightened.

"And you let her believe it. That you're him."

"I used to tell her the truth,"

he said.

"Every time. And every time, I watched the light vanish from her eyes. Like the world ended again and again. And she had to bury him all over."

He paused, drawing in a breath like it hurt.

"So I stopped. I stopped taking him away from her. I figured...sometimes peace is a kinder thing than truth."

Silence followed—but not the kind that ends things. It settled around us like space itself: wide, dark, full of unspoken things.

"You still talk about her like she's where everything in you begins and ends,"

I said quietly.

He let out a breath of a laugh.

"She is. Always has been. She has been an exceptional mother. When I was a kid, she called my dad her North Star. The one fixed point in her sky. dead but never gone. Even now—she's forgotten birthdays, names, her own reflection some days... but never him. Never the man she danced with "

Something ached deep in me. I didn't mean to reach for his hand. But I did. And he didn't let go.

He smiled, but it was the kind of smile people wear when they're holding back tears.

"She used to call him her center of gravity. Said he kept her grounded, even when life tried to spin her off course."

He glanced up, the ceiling lights reflecting faintly in his eyes.

"They used to go dancing, you know. Real dancing—ballrooms, galas, old vinyl records. She said that was their place, where the world fell away and it was just the two of them, one step at a time."

I felt something twist inside me.

"That's why I signed up,"

he added, his voice soft.

"I thought... if I could recreate that memory, maybe I could give her a piece of him again. Something solid. Something beautiful."

It was so heartbreakingly sweet, so tender and quietly heroic—it felt exactly like him.

"Sometimes. Not always. But sometimes..."

He smiled.

"Sometimes she closes her eyes, and I can tell she's there. With him. Like she's stepped through a wormhole in her mind."

I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He shifted just slightly—closer. Steadier.

"She still chooses him,"

I said.

"Even in the dark."

He nodded.

"That's what I want, you know? That kind of love. Not fireworks. Not chaos. Just... gravity. Something that pulls you home, even when your whole world's drifting."

"You'll find it,"

I whispered.

He turned his face slightly toward mine, so close I could feel his breath against my hair.

"Maybe," he said.

Just like that, the moment expanded—quiet and infinite. We didn't speak again. We didn't need to.

Later, he drove me home beneath a sky so impossibly clear it felt like the stars were leaning in to listen. The world was hushed, the kind of quiet that only comes when something sacred is unfolding. When we reached my porch, he cut the engine but didn't move right away. The soft glow from the dashboard lit his face, his jaw tense, his hands loose in his lap—like he was holding something fragile inside him, trying not to let it spill.

He finally stepped out and walked me to the steps, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn't trust them not to reach for something he couldn't have.

"Thanks for coming with me today,"

he said, voice low, almost reverent.

"Thank you for letting me,"

I whispered, because it felt like something more than a favor—it felt like a gift.

He looked at me then, really looked, and there was something wide and tender in his eyes.

"You know,"

he murmured.

"You've got a supernova feel."

I blinked, startled.

"A supernova?"

He gave a small, sheepish smile.

"Yeah. A star that burns so brightly it lights up everything around it. Beautiful, impossible to ignore... and rare."

I didn't mean to—I didn't even think—I just stepped into him and wrapped my arms around his waist.

He stiffened, just for a second, like he didn't expect to be held. And then he sank into it, into me, like someone who'd been holding his breath for years and had just found oxygen.

He held me like I was the gravity keeping him tethered to Earth. Not too tight, but all in. Like he knew how easily beautiful things could slip away.

Neither of us noticed the silhouette across the street, watching from the shadows.

But even if we had...

I would have stayed right there, wrapped around him, because in that moment, I felt something I hadn't in forever— peace, safety... and the quiet kind of happiness that doesn't ask to be earned.