The final image steals my breath completely - the girl and the star have become a constellation, permanently part of each other’s light. In the corner, in Alfie’s precise handwriting, “Some people burn so bright, they turn the darkness into stars.”
I replay it. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Each viewing reveals new details - the way he captured my exact expression when I’m excited about something, the delicate shading that makes the star seem to pulse with real light, the subtle way the girl’s face shows both fear anddetermination as she reaches for something that might burn her.
Alfie Spencer, who barely posts on social media, who keeps his art hidden from everyone, who guards his privacy like a fortress... just laid his heart bare for anyone to see.
Under the video, comments are building up:
@EthanTheMan:BRO. THIS IS EPIC.
@FreddieG: About time man
@AlexRocks:
But it’sthe caption that breaks me completely.
“For the girl who taught me that some stars are worth reaching for, even if you might get burned.”
Before I can overthink it, I grab my keys.
I don’t check my phone. I don’t let myself spiral.
I choose.
The silk of my dress whispers against my skin as I move, and I catch my reflection in the mirror—perfect makeup, carefully styled hair, a designer dress that makes me look invincible.
But that’s not why I’m doing this.
I’m not here to prove anything.
I’m here because I know what I want. And I refuse to let fear make that decision for me.
The rain starts halfway to his house—because, ofcourse, it does.
Everything important between us seems to happen in the rain.
By the time I reach his door, I’m soaked. Dripping, shaking, but resolute.
I knock.
Déjà vu slams into me—the last time I showed up here, terrified of the security footage.
Now, I’m here for a different kind of fear.
Alfie opens the door, looking like he hasn’t slept. His eyes widen as he looks me up and down.
“You’re wet.”
“It’s raining.”
“I can see that.” His brow furrows, like he wants to say something else.But instead, he pulls me inside, going to grab a towel—just like he did that first night.
Déjà vu again.
Only this time, I’m not leaving with more questions than answers.
“Tara—”
“I didn’t take it,” I blurt out. “Your mother’s offer. I wouldn’t.”
