I hold a freezing star in my hands. It’s so cold that it’s burning, melting its own core and eating at our flames with relentless trickles. It’s fire and water in one, hot and cold. Blazing and pouring. A perfect yin and yang, a complete fusion of yin and yang— an absolute expanse of grayness, but just an equilibrium balanced at the wrong end.

It used to shine with a warm glow, so comforting to look at and to feel in my palm; it was the brightest and most beautiful thing in my world. It was an infallible guide in my darkest nights. Always this star, this one single star that gave me so much strength and hope day after day.

Perhaps I held it too tightly in my hands. Perhaps it did not like the touch of my coarse fingers. It turned cold, as if trying to get away from me. It stopped glowing, and instead became a shiny black mass, like a piece of coal, staining my hands, leaving dark streaks and imprints behind.

Perhaps mortals like me should not dream of owning stars, as if they could ever belong to us. Perhaps it was wrong of me to have picked this one out from the sky, that one night in spring. Someday, I would have to place it back, hide it deep into the endless sky, where I would never be able to find it again.