“He carved constellations into her back, saying stars were only beautiful when they bled.”

“He carved constellations into her back, saying stars were only beautiful when they bled.”

They met under a bruised sky—him, a stargazer with ink-stained fingers, her, a girl with a spine like scripture. He said her skin was a map to forgotten heavens, and with every cut, he painted galaxies on her. She didn’t flinch. She bled in silence, like a cosmos swallowing its own light.

He whispered, “Pain makes things eternal.” She believed him.

But when the last star bled dry and her back bore the whole universe, he vanished—leaving her to carry the weight of creation alone. Now, she walks through deserts with galaxies on her spine, and gods bow where she passes. Because even pain, once holy, becomes divine.