Useless. That's what they called him. He was. He couldn't do anything right. They were right. He  was useless. The only thing he was good for was making a fool of himself. Why else would his father leave him? How could his father ever love a child who could never do anything? He was some hovering asteroid that barreled in and did nothing but mess everything up. The only one he could ever help was his mother. Look where that lead.

Unneeded. That's what he was. He couldn't help people like he was supposed to. He wasn't helping, he was hurting. His friend, his only friend - but who could even say that it wasn't just out of pity - had been almost killed because of him. Not like he did anything about it. Maybe he really was unneeded, so apathetic to those near him. As uncaring to the world as the stars were. The only one who needed him was his mother. But where was she now?

Idiot. That's what his father called him. It made sense. His grades weren't that bad, really, but they could be so much better. He always did stupid things that messed things up for everyone. Why did he even come? He was no better than some pebble floating in a far off cluster of space debris way out past the solar system. The only person who'd disagree was his mother. Why couldn't she be here too?

You think you're special and all that, but you're not. That's what the red-headed girl told him as she passed by in the halls. She was right, how could she not be. He wasn't special. Childish. The dull, blue-eyed girl told him. She was also right. They always were. Only his mother would disagree. Not that she could do that for him anymore.

Beautiful. That's what the boy called him, the boy who was snowy and white, a child's fairy tale brought to life. He was all long limbs and lavender lotion, vanilla sugar chapstick and pale eyelashes. And it was odd, so mind-boggling so, when he looked at such an unwanted, unneeded boy and said he was beautiful, as though dusty browns and flat, greyish-blue hues were more lovely than this angel's - for that's certainly what he was, some heavenly being beyond human comprehension - whites and greys and crimsons.

Kind. Good. That's what that angel who simply could not exist called him. He called him kind, and good, and beautiful, all while they sat alone, in a room away from everyone. He grabbed his hands and promised him "soon". 

And, oh, he had no clue what it meant, but it was a promise and promises meant there would be more. And if he could see this alabaster beauty even just once more, then maybe he could have one thing that was right in his life, no matter how short it was.

But no, he never was lucky was he? He could hear the gods laughing from the skies at him already. Why would he hope for something that was impossible for someone like him. And yet, as he lay in the grass, hand in hand, he couldn't help but wonder if they could fall into the sky, constellations yet to be wished upon, if maybe, perhaps the pearly vision beside him was some shooting star that fell all the way to Earth.

And as they settled down and let the Earth swallow them up into her bosom, he was acutely aware of the warmth between them, and then - all of the sudden -  the ground shook beneath them, rumbling and crooning into the sky. But no, that wasn't it. Rather he was more aware of soft lips on his, brown sugar and coffee creamer all around him, of a hand in his hair and one on his hip,of wet mouths and no discomfort, of a certain rightness that just made sense. 

Of more unspoken promises, and of hushed words he never expected to hear, did not deserve to hear.

I love you.