The Summer of Paper Stars
When sixteen-year-old Eliana Rivera found the old telescope in her grandfather's attic, she wasn't looking for love.
She was looking for escape.
Summer had just begun in the small coastal town of Marisol Bay, and for Eliana, that meant three long months of helping at her mother's bakery, listening to tourists argue over gluten-free muffins, and pretending she didn't feel left behind while her friends traveled to exciting places.
The attic was her quiet place. Dust floated in the golden afternoon light. Old books leaned against cracked wooden boxes. And in the far corner, near a small round window, sat the telescope.
It was brass, slightly rusted, and far too heavy for something meant to point at stars.
Curious, she dragged it toward the window and aimed it at the bright blue sky, though she knew stars wouldn't show until night. Still, she felt something magical about it—like it had seen things she hadn't.
That night, she carried it up to the flat roof of her building.
And that was where she met Mateo Alvarez.
"Uh… I think that's pointing the wrong way."
Eliana jumped.
A boy stood on the neighboring rooftop, leaning casually against a chimney. He had messy dark hair, paint smudges on his hands, and the kind of grin that made it impossible to tell whether he was teasing or serious.
"It's not," she replied defensively.
He tilted his head. "You're aiming at a streetlamp."
She adjusted it quickly. "I knew that."
"Sure you did."
She should have been annoyed. Instead, she laughed.
That was the beginning.
Mateo had moved into the apartment building next door two weeks earlier. His father had taken a temporary job restoring the old lighthouse at the edge of town. Mateo, it turned out, loved painting almost as much as he loved talking.
Every night after that, they met on their rooftops.
Sometimes they talked about simple things—favorite music, terrible teachers, dreams of leaving town one day. Other times, the conversations grew deeper. Mateo spoke about how he'd lived in five different cities and never stayed long enough to make real friends.
"I guess I got used to leaving before it mattered," he admitted one evening.
Eliana rested her chin on her knees. "That sounds lonely."
He shrugged. "It's easier."
She didn't agree.
Eliana had lived in Marisol Bay her whole life. She knew every crack in the sidewalks, every shop owner's name, every place where the ocean hit the rocks just right. But lately, the town felt small. Predictable. Like a story she'd already read too many times.
Until Mateo.
One night, instead of bringing the telescope, Eliana carried something else to the roof: a stack of colorful paper and a box of string lights.
"What's that?" Mateo asked.
"A project," she said.
They spent hours folding paper stars. Mateo insisted his were better. Eliana insisted his looked like crumpled napkins.
When they were finished, they strung the paper stars along the low wall that separated their rooftops, weaving tiny lights between them.
When they turned the lights on, the paper stars glowed softly in the dark.
"It's like our own constellation," Mateo said quietly.
Eliana looked at him then—really looked at him.
The lights reflected in his eyes. For a moment, everything felt suspended. The breeze, the distant sound of waves, even her heartbeat.
She realized something that made her both excited and terrified.
She liked him.
Not just rooftop-talk liked him.
Really liked him.
The next few weeks were filled with small adventures.
They biked to the lighthouse and watched Mateo's father work from below. They explored tide pools at sunrise. They painted seashells and hid them around town with tiny notes inside.
Once, they got caught in a sudden summer rainstorm and ran laughing through empty streets, completely soaked.
Eliana felt lighter than she had in years.
But as July slipped into August, something changed.
Mateo grew quieter.
One evening, he didn't show up on the roof.
The next night, he came late.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
He nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just busy."
She didn't believe him.
Finally, under the glow of their paper stars, he told her.
"We're leaving in two weeks."
The words felt like someone had knocked the air out of her.
"Oh," she said softly.
"My dad's job here is almost done. We're heading north this time."
North.
Farther than any place Eliana had ever been.
She stared at the paper stars, suddenly aware of how fragile they were. Just folded paper and string.
"I guess that's what you do," she managed. "Leave before it matters."
Mateo winced. "It already matters."
Silence stretched between them.
"I didn't plan this," he added. "I didn't plan you."
Eliana swallowed hard. She wanted to say something brave and romantic and movie-worthy.
Instead, she said, "I don't want this to just be a summer thing."
He stepped closer to the wall between them.
"It's not," he said.
"But you're leaving."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I am."
The days that followed felt strange—too bright, too fast. Every moment carried a countdown.
They tried to act normal. They laughed. They biked. They painted one last seashell and buried it near the lighthouse.
But underneath everything was the ticking clock.
On Mateo's last night in Marisol Bay, Eliana brought the telescope to the roof again.
"I finally figured it out," she said.
He smiled gently. "Yeah?"
She adjusted the lens and stepped aside. "Look."
Mateo peered through it.
The sky was clear, and the stars stretched endlessly above them.
"You see that?" she asked. "That's Cassiopeia."
He nodded.
"My grandfather used to say that no matter where you are, the stars are the same. You just have to know how to find them."
Mateo straightened slowly.
"Eliana…"
She took a breath. "You might leave. And I might stay. But we'll both see the same sky."
He reached across the small gap between rooftops and took her hand.
For once, neither of them joked.
"I don't want to be the kind of person who leaves before it matters," he said. "So I won't."
Her heart raced. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm coming back."
"Next summer?"
He smiled. "Sooner. We move around a lot, but my dad already said this lighthouse project might need follow-up work in the spring."
Hope flickered in her chest.
"And until then?" she asked.
He squeezed her hand gently. "We don't disappear."
They talked about video calls. Letters. Sending pictures of sunsets. Meeting halfway if they could convince their parents.
It wasn't a perfect plan.
But it was something.
The next morning, Eliana stood on the sidewalk as Mateo's family loaded boxes into their car.
The sun was just rising.
When he walked over to her, he looked different. Not distant. Not temporary.
Steady.
"I left something for you," he said.
She frowned. "What?"
He nodded toward her rooftop.
After the car pulled away, Eliana ran upstairs.
The string lights were still there.
The paper stars fluttered softly in the breeze.
But in the center, hanging slightly lower than the others, was a new one.
She climbed onto the ledge carefully and unfolded it.
Inside, written in Mateo's messy handwriting, were the words:
This isn't a goodbye. It's a see-you-under-the-same-sky.
Eliana pressed the note to her chest.
For the first time, Marisol Bay didn't feel small.
It felt full.
She picked up the telescope and aimed it toward the fading morning stars.
Somewhere out there, Mateo was driving north.
But above them, the sky stretched wide and endless.
And under that same sky, their story wasn't over.
It was just beginning. 💫