The Light of Our Last Star E-Book

Angelina Schreiber

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 30

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"In a galaxy, eight stars are born every day and each one holds a story." This is the story of two people who found each other in the quietest way, lost each other in the loudest silence, and tried to find peace in the aftermath. The Light of Our Last Star is a poetic short story told in eight chapters, each one reflecting a different stage of a love that was never meant to last, yet still meant everything. With stardust in its veins and heartbreak in its hands, this book carries readers through the wonder of falling, the stillness before breaking, the grief of being left behind, and the quiet beauty of surviving. It is a journey through memories, poems, and light. For anyone who has ever loved someone who didn't stay. Some stars vanish. Some stories end. But some light stays with us forever.

Leseprobe

Also by Angelina Schreiber:

My State of Felicity

dear inner child

A Million Letters to Write

To what was real, even if it didn’t last, and to the light I carry because of it.

Table of Contents

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 1: First Light ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 2: Gravity ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 3: Orbit ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 4: The Still Sky ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 5: Disappearance ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 6: Dark Matter ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 7: Starlight Echoes ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩ Chapter 8: The Light of Our Last Star ✩°｡⋆

⋆｡°✩Chapter 1: First Light✩°｡⋆

“They say the first star is the bravest, the one that dares to shine before the others catch on.”

You were not a spark.

You were not a storm.

You were something quieter, the slow unfolding of light at dusk.

The kind of light that doesn’t shout, just... stays.

I don’t remember what you wore that first time.

I don’t remember the exact words you said.

But I remember the way the air changed when you walked into the room.

Like the universe paused, just for a moment, and tilted slightly in your direction.

We didn’t collide.

We aligned.

Two people orbiting a life they hadn’t imagined yet.

I had spent years being the I-can-do-it-on-my-own girl.

Not because I wanted to be, but because I didn’t know there was another way.

And then you, you offered your hand when I stood up.

You filled my plate before your own.

You poured my wine and didn’t make a show of it.

You just... did it.

Like love was meant to be practical, too.

Like safety could live in the smallest things.

You didn’t ask me to soften.

But I did.

Without even noticing.

We started with late-night conversations that stretched across the stars.

I told you about the way I used to sit by my window as a child and look for constellations.

You told me you always liked the moon more than the sun.

You said the moon doesn’t demand attention, she just reflects what she’s given.

I didn’t know then how much that would matter later.

I wrote that your eyes were the poem I never intended to write.

And it was true.

You looked at me like I was something worth reading slowly.

Like I was not just a pretty sentence, but a story.

We talked about music, and I joked that I had a playlist for every mood.

You laughed and said, “Make one for me someday.”

I already had.

You never called me too much.

Not once.

You listened when I rambled.

You laughed when I got dramatic.

You remembered the titles of the poems I was too shy to read aloud.

You saw all of me, the chaos and the calm, and you stayed.

I don’t know when it started.

But I remember lying in your arms one night, my head on your chest, listening to the sound of your heartbeat like it was music made just for me.

And I remember thinking, “I want to freeze this moment. I want to make time stop, just for a second, just long enough to memorize how this feels.”

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I wasn’t bracing for goodbye.

I was just there.

With you.

Safe.

Still.

Seen.

You made my heart so happy it spilled out of me.

In texts I almost didn’t send.

In poems I scribbled on napkins.

In little notes I left behind when you weren’t looking.

You made love feel like light, not burning, but warm.

And suddenly, I was falling.

Not tripping, not crashing, just falling.

Softly.

Fully.

Like gravity had finally decided to be kind.