The Star We Shared

The Star We Shared

By: Elmira Abejero Alatan 

Description:

Mara never expected to find someone like Leo Hartman—a boy who traced constellations in the margins of his notebook and carried the weight of a secret. As their friendship deepens, she learns the truth: Leo’s time is running out. After he’s gone, Mara embarks on a journey, chasing the stars they once admired together. Along the way, she discovers that grief isn’t about forgetting but about finding new ways to keep the ones we love close.

Notice:

This story is dedicated to anyone who looks up at the night sky and thinks of the people they’ve lost. Maybe they’re not really gone—maybe they’re just shining from a place we can’t reach yet.

Written by:

Elmira, a high school student who watches the night sky whenever she misses her father and grandmother.

Chapter 1 

The first time I saw Leo Hartman, he was standing in the rain outside the school gym, staring at the sky like it owed him answers. His navy sweater was soaked through, and his dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. I’d just moved to Cedar Ridge—a sleepy town where the biggest attractions were the Friday night football games and the ancient diner with neon signs that flickered like tired fireflies—and everything about him felt like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

We were paired for a chemistry project three weeks later. He smelled like graphite and mint, and he sketched constellations in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes. “You’re the new girl,” he said, not looking up. “Mara, right?” His voice was low, almost cautious, like he was afraid of being overheard.

I nodded, surprised he knew my name. Nobody else did.

Over lab experiments and burnt coffee at the diner, Leo became less of a mystery and more of a paradox. He laughed louder than anyone when we watched bad horror movies in his basement, but his eyes dimmed whenever someone mentioned the future. He’d cancel plans last-minute, blaming migraines or family stuff, only to show up the next day with a new bruise on his knuckles and a joke about tripping over his dog.

Then there were the stars.

He’d drive us to the edge of town in his beat-up pickup, where the light pollution faded and the Milky Way sprawled above us like spilled paint. “That one’s Cassiopeia,” he’d say, tracing shapes in the air. “She’s vain, but she’s got style.” I’d tease him for being a closet romantic, and he’d grin—a fleeting, fragile thing—before changing the subject.

The cracks started showing in November.

He missed school for a week. When he returned, he was paler, quieter. His hands trembled when he passed me a note during English class: *Meet me at the fair tonight?*

The Cedar Ridge Fall Fair was all twinkling lights and sticky cotton candy, but Leo was distracted, his gaze darting like he was memorizing the tilt of my smile. We rode the Ferris wheel, and when we reached the top, he kissed me—soft and desperate, like he was trying to outrun something. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against my lips, but he wouldn’t say why.

Two days later, his older sister cornered me at my locker. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her voice shaking. “He’s in the hospital.”

The truth came out in fractured pieces: Leo had been sick for years. A faulty heart, surgeries that didn’t stick, a prognosis that hovered over his family like a storm cloud. He’d hidden it, refusing to let anyone treat him like he was fragile. “He didn’t want pity,” his sister said. “Especially not from you.”

I ran to the hospital, my chest burning. He was hooked to monitors, his fingers cold when I grabbed them. “You idiot,” I choked out, tears blurring his face. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

He smiled weakly. “Knew you’d say that.”

We stole moments between tests and visiting hours. I brought him sketchbooks and smuggled in milkshakes. He drew me a galaxy on the back of a hospital menu, labeling each star with inside jokes and promises. *“When I get out of here,”* he’d say, *“we’ll go back to the fair. Ride that rickety Ferris wheel until it breaks.”*

He never got out.

The night he died, it snowed—a rare, heavy blanket that muffled the world. His sister handed me a folded note with my name scrawled in his messy handwriting. Inside was a sketch of Cassiopeia, her jagged shape formed by tiny, inked stars. At the bottom, he’d written: *“You were the only future I wanted. Thank you for letting me pretend.”*

I still go to the edge of town sometimes, where the stars burn brightest. I whisper to them, hoping one might whisper back. And when the fair comes around each year, I ride the Ferris wheel alone, clutching a faded drawing to my chest, wondering if grief is just love with nowhere left to go.

Chapter 2 

Time doesn’t stop for grief.

The days after Leo’s funeral blurred into routine—school, homework, answering people’s hushed condolences with a nod. Cedar Ridge moved on, but I stayed stuck, orbiting the places he left behind. His desk in chemistry sat empty. His beat-up pickup rusted in his driveway, covered in leaves. Even the night sky felt quieter, like it knew a star had gone out.

One evening, months later, I found myself at the edge of town again, parked under the same sky we used to share. I unfolded the note he left me, fingers tracing the inked stars.

“Still talking to the sky?”

I turned to see his sister, Emily, leaning against my car. Her face was thinner, her eyes tired, but she smiled.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Not sure it listens.”

She sighed, tilting her head back. “Leo thought it did.”

For a while, we just stood there, wrapped in silence. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, folded page. “I found this in his sketchbook,” she said, handing it to me.

I hesitated before opening it. Inside was another drawing—this time, of a different constellation. Orion. The hunter.

Beneath it, in Leo’s handwriting: “Mara, keep looking up. I’ll always be there.”

A lump rose in my throat.

“I think he wanted you to have it,” Emily said. “He didn’t say much those last few days, but he kept that notebook close.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you.”

Emily squeezed my shoulder before stepping back. “You should come by the house sometime. We’re sorting through his things.”

I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, but I said, “Yeah. I will.”

That night, I laid in bed, staring at Orion through my window, tracing the shape of Leo’s words with my fingertips.

Maybe 

the stars did listen after all.

Chapter 3

A week later, I stood on the Hartmans' front porch, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets. The house felt different without Leo in it—quieter, heavier, like the walls were holding their breath.

Emily let me in with a small smile, leading me upstairs to his room. It smelled the same—graphite and mint, a mix of cologne and something distinctly Leo. His bed was unmade, his sneakers still kicked under his desk like he might walk in any second and complain about the mess.

“He kept everything,” Emily said, rummaging through his closet. “Notes, sketches, ticket stubs. He was sentimental, even if he pretended not to be.”

She pulled out a shoebox and handed it to me. “This was his.”

I hesitated before lifting the lid. Inside were scraps of paper covered in his handwriting, tiny sketches of constellations, and—my breath hitched—a Polaroid of us from the fair. Leo was grinning, his arm around my shoulder, his eyes crinkled in that way that made my heart ache.

Beneath the photo was a folded letter with my name on it.

Emily squeezed my hand before stepping out, giving me space. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the paper.

“Mara,

If you’re reading this, I guess I didn’t make it. I hate that. I hate that I won’t be around to take you back to the fair or show you the constellations you always forget. But if I have to go, I want you to know this: you were my favorite part of all of it. The nights under the stars, the dumb horror movies, the burnt coffee—I wouldn’t trade any of it. I wouldn’t trade you.

Keep looking up. Keep going. And when you find Orion, think of me.

-Leo”

Tears blurred the ink, but I didn’t wipe them away. I just held the letter to my chest, pressing it close like maybe, somehow, it could bring him back.

I stayed in his room for a long time, sifting through the memories he left behind. And when I finally stepped outside, the night sky stretched above me, Orion shining brighter than before.

Maybe he ne

ver really left at all.

Chapter 4 

Grief doesn’t leave all at once. It lingers in the spaces between moments—between laughter that feels too loud, between dreams where Leo is still here, between the pause before I look up at the sky.

A month after finding his letter, I did something I hadn’t done since he left. I drove.

The same roads, the same turns, until I reached the edge of town where the stars burned the brightest. I spread out a blanket in the truck bed, the way we used to, and stared up at Orion.

“I found your letter,” I whispered. “And your box of secrets.”

The wind carried my voice away.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted. “To just—keep going without you.”

A car pulled up behind me, headlights cutting through the dark. I wiped my face quickly before turning. Emily.

She climbed into the truck bed beside me, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

I exhaled a small laugh. “Guess I’m predictable.”

“Leo was too,” she said. “Especially about you.”

We sat in silence for a while, watching the stars. Then Emily nudged me. “You ever think about leaving?”

I thought about it more than I admitted. Cedar Ridge was full of echoes, and sometimes, they were too loud to bear.

“Yeah,” I said. “But Leo’s here.”

Emily nodded, pulling something from her pocket—a small, folded piece of paper. “One last thing,” she said, handing it to me.

It was another sketch. This time, of a road winding into the distance, the stars stretching endless above it. At the bottom, in his messy scrawl:

“Go. The world’s bigger than this town, Mara. Find new stars.”

I swallowed hard, tracing the ink.

Maybe 

Leo was right. Maybe it was time.

Chapter 5

Cedar Ridge felt smaller after that night.

Leo had always talked about the sky like it was endless, like there was always something new to find if you looked long enough. I wasn’t sure if he ever really believed that for himself, but maybe—just maybe—he believed it for me.

A month later, I packed my bags.

Emily was the first person I told. She met me at the diner, stirring her coffee like she was bracing herself. “Where to?”

I shrugged. “Not sure yet. Just… somewhere new.”

She smirked. “Leo would say, ‘Very specific, Mara. Excellent planning.’”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, he didn’t leave me an address. Just stars.”

The day I left, I made one last stop—our spot at the edge of town. I climbed into the truck bed, breathing in the cool night air, and unfolded Leo’s sketches one more time. Cassiopeia. Orion. The road leading forward.

“I’m going,” I whispered. “Just like you said.”

The wind rustled through the trees, and for a moment, it almost felt like he was there—like if I turned my head fast enough, I’d see him, grinning in that lopsided way of his.

I smiled, blinking away tears.

Then I got in my car, turned on the headlights, and drove.

Somewhere beyond Cedar Ridge, beyond the places we used to know, he stars were waiting.

Chapter 6

The road stretched out before me, unfamiliar and open. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t chasing ghosts—I was chasing the horizon.

I drove until Cedar Ridge was just a memory in my rearview mirror, until the radio stations changed and the air smelled different. I stopped in a small town one night, pulling off at a roadside diner with flickering neon lights that reminded me of home.

Inside, the place was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt comfortable. I slid into a booth by the window, tracing the rim of my coffee cup, watching the night settle outside.

“You passing through?” the waitress asked, setting down a plate of fries.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just looking for something.”

She smiled like she understood. Maybe she did.

After dinner, I found a clearing on the outskirts of town. I laid on the hood of my car, staring up at the sky. The stars were different here—new constellations, new patterns—but Orion was still there, standing watch.

I pulled Leo’s last drawing from my pocket, smoothing out the creases.

"Go. The world’s bigger than this town, Mara. Find new stars."

I closed my eyes and breathed.

For the first time since he left, I felt it—not just loss, not just longing, but something softer.

Hope.

The world was still spinning. The stars were still burning. And somewhere, somehow, Leo was part of all of it.

I wasn’t lost.

I was just beginning.

Chapter 7

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I kept driving, stopping in towns where no one knew my name, where the stars looked just a little different but still familiar. Each night, I’d find a quiet place, lie on the hood of my car, and whisper to the sky.

I told Leo about the things he was missing—the old diner I found with the best pie, the bookstore where the owner let me stay past closing, the strangers who became something close to friends. I told him about the mountains I saw, the ocean I touched for the first time.

And I listened, just in case the stars whispered back.

One evening, in a small coastal town, I met someone who reminded me of him.

His name was Wes, and he was sketching on a napkin at the café where I stopped for coffee. I didn’t mean to stare, but when he caught me looking, he grinned and turned the napkin my way. A messy outline of the sky.

“You into constellations?” he asked.

I smiled, something warm and bittersweet blooming in my chest. “Yeah. I used to know someone who was, too.”

He tapped the drawing. “Then tell me—what’s your favorite?”

I hesitated, then pointed. “Orion.”

His grin widened. “Good choice. The hunter.”

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was running from something. Maybe I wasn’t meant to leave Leo behind, but to carry him forward—into new places, new skies, new stories.

That night, I sat by the ocean, listening to the waves and looking up at the stars.

“I’m still here,” I whispered. “Still looking up.”

And for the first time, it felt like an answer.

Chapter 8

I stayed in the coastal town longer than I expected.

There was something about the way the waves kissed the shore, the way the sky stretched wide and open, that made it feel like a place I could belong.

Wes and I fell into an easy rhythm—late-night talks on the boardwalk, sketching constellations on napkins, sharing stories over coffee. He never pried about the past, but he listened when I spoke.

One evening, as we sat on the beach, he glanced up at the sky and said, “You know, I think people are kind of like stars.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, dragging a stick through the sand. “Some burn out too soon. But the light they leave behind? It never really goes away.”

I swallowed hard, staring at Orion. “I think I needed to hear that.”

He nudged me gently. “Good. ‘Cause I meant it.”

For the first time, I let myself imagine a future beyond Cedar Ridge. Not one weighed down by loss, but one filled with moments like this—new constellations, new stories, new stars.

Leo once told me the world was bigger than our little town.

Now, I finally believed him.

Chapter 9 (final)

A year passed before I returned to Cedar Ridge.

The town hadn’t changed much—the same flickering diner sign, the same football field, the same quiet streets. But I had.

I parked at the edge of town, where Leo and I had spent so many nights staring at the sky. The stars were just as bright as I remembered. Orion still stood watch.

I spread out a blanket and pulled a folded piece of paper from my jacket—the last sketch Leo had given me. The winding road. The stars stretching endless above it.

"Go. The world’s bigger than this town, Mara. Find new stars."

I had.

I had found mountains and oceans. I had found new people, new places, new stories. But standing there under the same sky, I realized something.

No matter how far I went, Leo would always be with me. In the constellations he traced, in the laughter we shared, in the love that never faded, even after goodbye.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “I found them, Leo. The new stars.”

The wind carried my words into the night. And as I looked up, I could almost hear him laughing, could almost feel his warmth beside me.

I smiled.

Then I got in my car, turned on the headlights, and drove toward wha

tever came next.

Message:

Life is unfair sometimes. People leave too soon, moments slip away, and no matter how tightly we hold on, some things are just meant to become memories. But even in loss, we find pieces of those we loved—hidden in the stars, in old notes, in the way we laugh at the same dumb jokes. Maybe grief isn’t about moving on; maybe it’s about carrying them forward, letting their light guide us even when they’re gone.

Question:

If you could say one last thing to someone you lost, what would it be? And if they could answer, what do you think they’d say back?

**The end**