The magic of the universe and the first day of school.

In the polished corridors that smell like new things and nostalgia, sharpened pencils and chalk dust, the stars are flinging themselves forward with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for pinballs and bumper cars. Those bright, shiny points of light guide you from the crowd into the crowd and out of the crowd, and you follow them like a smitten moth, your old wings fluttering and brushing a trail of dust and shoe prints. You're this tired, quiet thing and you're feeling this feeling that comes on in a sudden burst, the kind of feeling that stretches an absurd smile across your face. Following your fate, those pinging points of light, and it's a funny kind of hope and doom you're chasing: Life at its essence, some kind of brilliant eternity, and your own looming lack of it. You're just holding onto the tail of a comet, chasing down stars as best you can. But wait, little star, let me tie your shoe. But wait, little star, just a quick hug.

These stars won't wait. These stars laugh and gasp out of your reach, these stars are rocketing forward at a breathtaking pace. They're taking your breath and turning you inside out. The cosmic forces are working for you. The cosmic forces are working against you.

There is a moment outside her classroom door where you see her hesitate, looking at the little lights so much like hers pulsing in chairs and around lockers. You see the pause, the interstellar scintillation, before she plunges forward to join the rest of them.

You head down the hall with your heart orbiting Mars.

The stars aren't yours, but the stars never are. They belong up in the wide-open sky, in the glittering, smiling mouth of the universe.