Yesterday afternoon in the river, she had seen the whole of Crier’s body, and the yearning that drummed through her wasn’t anything she’d felt before, and her own reaction wasn’t anything she’d felt before, the oceanic pulse between her hips, the things she wanted. feel things like that? Could an Automa girl feel that tug in her lower belly, that fishhook pull, making her want more, want harder, want deeper, want sweeter? Want hands in her hair, on her waist, on her hips, want-? Don’t go there, Ayla told herself, but she couldn’t help it. It’s you, the wash of starlight, the old paradox: if the Universe were static, I could stand anywhere in this world and I swear my line of sight would end on you.

Some nights I lie awake, thinking of this, and it makes me unspeakably sad. Some nights I can think of nothing else, and nothing more terrifying. The nature of the Universe is that everything inside it becomes lonelier and lonelier and lonelier. Celestial bodies floating in a black sea, carried by a current older than life. Expanding outward-pushing, pulling, as you told me. The paradox doesn’t account for the fact that the Universe, like all things, was born and has been growing ever since. The problem is the assumption that the Universe is static, unmoving that every star has always occupied the same space in our sky. By this logic, the night sky shouldn’t be dark at all it should be a blinding wash of starlight. By this logic, you could stand anywhere in this world and look up at the night sky and your line of sight would inevitably end on a star.

We believe the Universe birthed an infinite number of stars.

Crier's War by Nina Varela