(𝒏.) love of and/or obsession with planets, stars, and outer space.
Therefore begins, a story of starry-eyed beings toward a state of obstinate redamancy. And perhaps, just perhaps, the smallest sprinkles of stardust.
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ataraxia
.✧･˚ : ༉‧₊˚✧
Callista
A time fornew beginnings will always come. For Callista Lusier, it was the beginning of life in the real world.
Little Callista had always believed that it would be a life straight out of her childhood storybooks, ones that her grandmother had read to her as she sat in her rocking chair.
But alas, the world remains spinning, and Callista had learned that in the most gruesome way possible. She had lost both of her parents early on, and had been left in the care of her grandmother.
Callista's grandmother, Agnes, meant the world to her. She had grown up within the comfort of her grandmother's whimsical tales of old, of dainty vintage teacups, and of big, dusty astrology books. They had shared their great love for the universe and the quiet yet graceful reverie it held.
So much so that often, they would spend their evenings under the stars, sharing gentle words as if they were the most fragile secrets.
"Grand-mére, is it true that when one dies, their soul becomes one with the stars?" Callista asks.
Agnes smiles at her. "I'd like to believe so, my dear. Wouldn't it be lovely? I would love nothing more."
"I'd like to imagine maman and papà became one of them, too." Callista shares with a bittersweet smile. "I know I'll always have them with me, for I know they'll forever live among stardust."
"My sweet Callista, they will always be with you. Your heart remains a testament to the fond love they have shared for you."
The rest of the evening spent with the lingering feeling of unspoken longing for those who have gone. And perhaps, at that very moment, Apollo and Calypso were there, listening to their heartfelt exchange—
Wishing that they could be there, too.
✧
As the dawning sun awakens, signifying the break of a new day, Callista does the same. Basking in the gentle embrace of the morning breeze, she greets her feline friend, Oliver, before she heads out into the town and enters a quaint coffee shop.
Callista was but a simple person. She always found that her enjoyment came from the little things in life, yet she also possessed an alluring and adventurous soul.
It had always been a favored hobby of hers to go café hopping, venturing for delectable, freshly-brewed lattes and warm, irresistible pastries. But of course, the breathtaking interiors and structures of the cafés itself will always be a delightful addition to her daily discoveries.
It brought joy into her heart, picking up the bits and pieces that came with the enthralling details of the town, Feldheim, which she loved so dearly.
Sat in a table outside the café, with a plate of decadent raspberry tart and a freshly brewed cup of vanilla latte, Callista contentedly pulls out her favorite book and spends her morning in delight, enclosed in her own state of quiet solitude.
Afternoons went by in the comfort of her own bedroom, often knitting by her window seat with Oliver nuzzled cozily just beside her.
Otherwise, she would sit daydreaming about enchanting meadows if not rows and rows of clovers and poppies.
Most times, she would imagine meeting face-to-face with her lover for the first time, curating an array of scenarios in her head, wondering how the universe had planned to introduce her to him. She liked to imagine what her soulmate would be like.
Would he be a gentleman? Would he have dreamy eyes that twinkle like rays of sun meeting the vast horizon? Would he have charming, curly hair? Would he be enthralled with the stars the same way she was?
Callista was as much a dreamer as she was a hopeless romantic.
Truth be told, she was adored by many. Perhaps it was her gentle demeanor and feminine charm that had enchanted most, or the way freckles lightly danced all over her face that added to the softness of her being—her hazel eyes that looked like autumn, or her delicate, auburn hair that cascaded like a river that flows infinitely.
She was a picturesque painting personified.
"Why, good morning, Callista! Always pleasant to see you here. Lovely morning so far?" Lucille, the café owner, greets warmly.
"Good morning, madame. Very much so. Your raspberry tarts will always be my favorite!" Callista responds enthusiastically.
"Thank you, dear. I always make sure a fresh batch is made just for you." Lucille beams at her. "Say, dear, I don't mean to intrude, but I wonder how you've not yet found yourself a partner? I dare say a girl like you is to be loved by all."
Callista laughs airily. "I don't quite intend to find one yet, madame. I've only just turned 18 after all. Much to discover, much to explore. Besides, I'd much rather enjoy my raspberry tarts to myself while I can.
But perhaps, I wouldn't mind sharing if it were to be my prince charming."
They share a laugh. "Why, of course. A charming girl you will be as always, Callista. I best leave you to it now. Let me know if you'd like anything more, and send my kind regards to Agnes for me, would you, dear?"
"I will! Thank you kindly once again, madame." Before Callista happily returns to her book.
She was used to this—having sweet exchanges with people from her town. From simple greetings, to thoughtful conversations. It was why she had grown so attached to the place she proudly called her home.
She was happy where she was, and she knew that very well.
✧
Callista Lusier was loved by all.
Despite that, she never has once experienced feeling the same amount of affection for any other. She simply believed that she was yet to have her dreamlike encounter. In one, heartfelt autumn's day she had hoped, it would happen, and all would be well.
Callista's life, however, wasn't perfect. And she knew that very well.
What was it that I wanted? I had always known that I would forever be cursed with a gap deep inside my heart, a sorrowful memory left within my being. Yet, there had always been something more. A feeling of yearning for something that has never happened, or rather, someone I had never met.
