Written in the Stars

A farewell letter to a star that left too early, and the grief that taught me how to look up again

Today,
life reminded me
that it doesn’t wait.

It doesn’t wait for us to grow old.
To finish our to-do list.
To say what matters.
To hug again.
To live all the lives we thought we had time for.

Today,
a star vanished from this sky.
And I’m still looking for your light.

The universe pulled someone too soon.
And now I’m left staring at the sky,
asking it to give you back.
Begging for it to rewind time.
Even just for five minutes.
So I could tell you what you meant to me
without emojis or deadlines.
Just with my voice.
And tears.

I keep thinking:
this must be a mistake.
How can someone just
not
be
anymore?

You were only 29.
And I still don’t know how to say “were.”
I can’t put you in the past.
You don’t belong there.
You were too bright.
Too alive.
To young.
Too full of plans.

You believed in light.
You shared it like stardust.
Even while pain ate your body slowly.
You laughed,
you guided,
you called me “amada.”
you always told me that you believed everything would work out.
And I believed you.

Now, I feel like I’m standing
at the edge of the galaxy,
watching your light vanish
into silence.
And I want to scream,
but all that comes out
is this unbearable ache
pressed into my chest like a meteor.

No one teaches us how to grieve
when the stars fall out of the sky.

You read maps of the soul.
You told me the sky had plans for me.
But who read yours?
Who knew it would end like this?
Where in your chart
did it say:
departure, early?

You read the skies for me.
And now I stare at it,
begging it can whisper
where you’ve gone.

Cancer took you.
But not your magic.
Not your light.
Not your impact.
You were a rare alignment
of strength and softness.
Of elegance and witchcraft.
Of sun and moon.
And now I’m
a mix of ache and guilt.

Today I’m afraid of everything.
Of time.
Of aging.
Of people dying before I’m ready —
which is always.
I feel this wave of panic
crashing through me like cold water.

I think of my grandparents,
their fragile voices on the phone.
Their wrinkles I now see
only once a year.
I see their hair becoming more and more gray.
I hear about my grandfather’s cancer,
And I pray it just vanishes.
I think of the distance between us
and how grief
makes that distance feel like an ocean
I’ll never cross in time.

I think of my parents —
getting older too.
Of all the calls I didn’t make.
Of all the FaceTime plans I postponed.
Of all the “I love yous” I should’ve said
but assumed they already knew.
I do tell them all the time, 
But it doesn’t feel like enough.

I think of myself.
And how terrified I am
of dying before I live
everything I’m meant to.
Before I give birth to the books I want to write.
Or before I am able to be a mom.
Before I fall madly in love again
and again
and again.

I think of how fragile I am.
Of how fragile we all are.

I think of how cruel cancer is.
Of how unfair it feels
that you fought so hard
and still lost.

And I don’t know who to be mad at.
The sky?
The stars?
The cells?
God?
The calendar?

But mostly,
I’m just sad.
Heartbroken.
Because the world is a little dimmer now.

I keep wondering what surrounded you
in that final moment.
Was it quiet?
Was it peaceful?
Did time slow down enough
for you to feel your soul lifting,
gently —
like a feather carried by wind?
Did you feel all the love
you ever gave
coming back to wrap around you?
Did the stars make space
for your arrival?

But it’s not enough
to believe you're somewhere among the stars.
I don’t just want to look up
and whisper your name into the sky.
I want to hear your laugh echo back.
I want to send a voice note
and get one of your long replies
with insights about my chart,
predictions wrapped in love,
and your soft, certain “amada”
that always made me feel seen.

I want to plan things we’ll never do.
I want to hear you excited with your ideas
And tell you
a million more times
How much the world needs you,
How bright you were.
Make up futures and projects —
just for the joy of imagining.

But now,
it all feels like it’s slipping through my hands.
Like sand.
Like smoke.
Like trying to hold a dream after waking.
Everything feels like
ashes and silence.

And I’m tired
of pretending
that death doesn’t scare me.

I try so hard to ignore it.
To outlive it
by running faster,
dreaming bigger,
working more.

But grief catches you
like gravity.
Pulls you to the ground
in the middle of a Wednesday
and tells you,
look around —
any of this could end.
Anyone could vanish.

And so I cry.
For you.
For your family.
For all the lives
that end too soon.
For everyone I can lose.

But also for me.
For the version of me
that’s still trying to live
as if I’m immortal.
As if time waits.
As if tomorrow is a promise
and not a privilege.

And even in the middle of this sadness,
I know —
I know
you became something greater.
A star in the sky.

You are not gone.
You’ve just shifted.
Back to your element.
Stardust.
Magic.

Now, every time I look up,
I’ll remember:
you were written in the stars, 
our encounters too.
And now you’re part of them.

You,
the girl who read the skies
now dances in them.

And me?
I’ll keep trying to live a life
that makes myself proud.
I’ll call more.
I’ll hug longer.
I’ll publish the damn poems
before it’s too late.
I’ll do whatever I want, because no one cares.
I will stop being afraid to be seen,
with my unperfected skin,
like you always complained you were, 
but I loved you,
and saw your beauty anyways, always.

I’ll live like I mean it.
Like it could all end
today.
Because sometimes —
it does.

But for now,
I’ll cry.
And then,
I’ll turn this sadness into something beautiful.
I’ll share the message I can with people,
Tell everyone I love, that I love them 
Go to the astrology shop here in London,
We planned on going together.
And I will look up,
And look for you among the stars.

Because I swear,
I hope,
I pray,
your light
will never
go out.