The milky stars hung just overhead, twinkling in the sky. I felt fine… for a while.

It
wasn’t until I let my imagination run wild that I began to cry. I tried so hard not to think of the
stars in the way I knew would trigger that response, but I couldn’t help it.
It was him.
I couldn’t switch my brain off. I forced myself to think about the stars the way I had
learned as a child. That the stars twinkled from millions of light years away, and that by the time
we are seeing them, they’re already gone. They’ve exploded into bits, sending chunks of stars
and dust in the eternal space.
Here lies my problem: I know the truth.
The truth is not what they’ve taught us in schools; that’s probably because they too don’t
know what’s hidden behind the brightness. I was never supposed to know either. No one on
Earth was ever intended to know their secret.
But I do.
That ridiculous story my mother told me. The one about the boy who never grew up, and
the magical land above the clouds. It’s all true.
I used to think she was so full of it. That she made up stories just to give us a sense of
childhood longing for a world better than our own.
As a kid, I was a realist. I did not understand the point of wishing for something that
couldn’t possibly come true. What was the point in imagining I could fly above the crystal blue
sea and swipe my hand across a sparkling rainbow? I wanted to go outside, touch the bark on the
trees, gaze up at the stars and remind myself the truths about science and space.
Now that I’m finally grown, I understand the point of daydreaming. The point of
escaping one reality to dive into a fiction realm.
Because now that I know who lies beyond the stars, I want to imagine a world where the
astronomers were correct in their assumption about space and the little spots of light visible on a
clear night.
It pains me each time I think about him. He’s up there, and I’m down here, and the whole
world and more separates us.
I had to leave; he knows that. Peter helped me escape that prison of a world. He knew
that I couldn’t live another day staring out the window of the treehouse, seeing my father’s ship
bob in the water and knowing he was free. He was alive and well, living like a king right in front
of me.
Peter had to rescue me once, but I was too scared he’d have to do it again. If I stayed,
there was a slim chance I would never leave again. And worse than that, my father would keep
me on his crew for all eternity. Next time, I’d be looking out across the ocean toward the
treehouse with a very different feeling of longing.
I do not want my father to be happy. Hell, I don’t even want him alive.
I hope Peter does what he said he’d do and takes care of him. Then I can go back. We
both agree it was more beneficial for my safety and his to leave me here while he seeks out my
father.
I know that if I stayed, I probably would’ve gotten Peter killed. I was a flight risk. I know
that—I do. He was right to take me home where I’d be free and safe to make my own decisions.
I can’t charge straight into danger and wait for Peter to pull me back. Nor let him put
himself right between me and the danger. So now I’m here. Home. Or what’s left of it.
The apartment looks so small now compared to the beautiful, dark oak treehouse I’d been
sheltered under in Neverland. There’s a singular orange couch and an ornate Middle Eastern rug
laying over the brown hardwood floors. The living room is the only room in the whole flat that
hasn’t been completely ripped through like a hurricane. It’s neat, although the dust has been
building up on top of the armoire.
As soon as I walk into Danny’s room, the pain sears through every muscle and bone in
my body. My heart slows to a steady thump…thump…thump. I can only feel it, because there is
no sound coming through my ears. It’s like my entire body is blank to prevent the crush of the
immense sadness.
Gone. He’s gone and I couldn’t save him. Danny. My brother. The boy who smiled like
the world depended on it. He had everything left to accomplish, and I took that from him.
It was my father who killed him right in front of my eyes. He so savagely gauged my
reaction to see if he’d finally found my breaking point. And that probably would have been my
final straw if Peter hadn’t broken in and taken me out before it was too late. I would’ve collapsed
into a puddle of tears and sorrow, consumed by grief.
I knew coming home would be hard, but it’s so much worse than I imagined. I had seen
the light flicker out of Danny’s eyes after they’d gone wide with the realization that he was
breathing his last breath.
Now, I can only imagine that same reaction the night my father stormed into our
apartment and plucked my brother right out of his navy-blue sheets.
The white wooden drawers, the walk-in closet, the tall bathroom cabinets—all rummaged
through. And all of it done in the stark black of night while Danny slept soundly. That is, until
they threw open his bedding and ripped him out.
This room is a disaster, and it’s just one mirror of three more identical messes. The crew
intended to find me; I think. Though Danny may have been their goal all along, some part of me
believes they only took Danny once they realized I was still in Neverland. Because they couldn’t
find me, and instead of searching for me themselves, they wanted to draw me out of my hole. So,
he ransacked our home and used my brother as leverage instead.
If I hadn’t been rescued from my father’s captivity, or better yet, if I’d died on that ship,
none of this would have happened. And since I cannot reverse time, I will have to live with this
anguish for the rest of my miserable life.
I run my back down the cold, beige wall until I’m sitting on the floor with my knees
tucked to my chest and I let everything out. Because, for the first time in a while, there’s no one
around to watch me cry.