Chapter 5
Riya had read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos on her thirteenth birthday.
It was a gift from her parents, wrapped in shiny paper and neat little bows. Never lose your curiosity, her mom had written on the title page.
Riya devoured it in a single day.
She liked the way Carl spoke to her through the pages like an old friend, his love of space infectious. Most of all, she liked
the idea of contributing to a growing repository of knowledge—of being part of something far bigger than herself. Something
that actually mattered.
A few months later, her dad surprised her with a lightly used Celestron telescope, and from then on, her world permanently
narrowed to the sky above. Her dad had meant it as comfort; he’d given it to her right after the Incident, and Riya had used
it as an escape.
After all, astronomy made sense. It didn’t bend to whims or emotions. Stars burned, planets spun, gravity held—fixed laws
that never faltered. Unlike magic. Unlike people.
So after school, while other kids planned sleepovers or elaborate birthday parties, Riya rushed home to use her telescope,
jotting observations in a notebook. Atmosphere unusually clear tonight. Saw two shooting stars, both blue—from magnesium? Or maybe it’s a trick of the light. If the weather was bad, she’d watch YouTube videos on black holes, or research colleges that could teach her even more.
Colleges like Caltech.
Not just any college—the college for astrophysics. The one with the deepest research, the most resources, the best professors.
It became a goal so sharp and clear she could hold it like a compass. Because if she could just get there—if she could survive
long enough, focus hard enough, be good enough—maybe she could prove something to herself. That she was more than a girl who’d let things spiral out of control. That she could build a future
not built on instinct or emotion or chance—but on effort. On certainty.
Her parents had gifted her a Caltech sweatshirt for her next birthday.
Her sisters, too, had tried to join her world, in their own way.
“Teach us how to use the telescope! Ooh, but let’s bake spaceship cookies first!” Nyra had suggested, earning Amara’s scolding: “She’s fourteen, not a toddler.”
Riya refused. They’d only distract her, she reasoned. The truth was simpler: She hated the idea of obligation, of pity-driven
interest. Just because Riya was their baby sister didn’t mean they needed to pretend to care.
She preferred solitude, anyway. Sometimes, it was easier—certainly less exhausting—than trying to fit into her family’s orbit.
One evening, Riya set up her telescope in the backyard, adjusting the focus until the golden hue of Venus sharpened in the lens. The sky stretched above her, dark and boundless, an ocean of comforting silence.
A breeze drifted in from the house, carrying the scent of cinnamon and cardamom, the sound of her sisters’ muffled laughter
through the open window. A familiar rhythm: a conversation she wouldn’t join, a world that would carry on without her.
Not that they wanted to leave her out. They never had.
She thought of Nyra’s impulsive, python-grip hugs, Amara’s head pats as she passed in the hallway, the way her mother always
left tea on her desk when she was studying.
They had never tried to force her closer. But still, Riya had kept her distance.
It was better to keep her distance. She had learned that lesson young: All magic—like love itself, like all emotions—was unpredictable.
A storm that could spiral out of control without warning.
Sure, space had storms, too, but at least they followed discernable rules. Even chaos had equations. You could see it coming.
Prepare for it. She told herself that was why she’d chosen the stars.
And yet . . .
Riya gazed at Venus through the lens. At the stars surrounding it.
The problem was, even the most solitary stars weren’t truly alone.