By Yara Faytrouni

October 27, 2006. That was the day everything I believed in began to unravel. 

 In the heart of a quiet, poor hamlet, I grew up in a house made of cracked bricks and endless dreams. We were surrounded by hunger, but also by the warmth of love. My father, a dreamer with calloused hands, died when I was six, claimed by a war he never wanted. A soldier out of duty, not desire. He left behind a family and a future unfinished. His dreams never had the chance to breathe. He was one of many soldiers; young, full of potential, swallowed by something bigger than all of us. 

“Oh, what a waste of Army Dreamers” -Kate Bush, Army Dreamers 

 We lived simply: my mother, my grandmother, my two orphaned cousins, and me. Despite the emptiness that often sat at our table, I tried to bring joy where I could. Laughter felt like rebellion in a place where sorrow hung heavy in the air. 

And then there was Fiona. My best friend. She was a light in a world gone dim; sharp, funny, fiercely loyal. Every Saturday, we walked miles together to study in town, books in our hands, hope in our hearts. We’d dream of other places, big cities, maybe even becoming teachers or writers. She once told me, “if we ever leave, we’ll leave together.” 

Sometimes, we’d stop by the river that ran behind the village. The water was muddy, but to us, it shimmered. We carved our names into the bark of an old fig tree there and swore we’d return one day to tell stories to our daughters beneath its leaves. 

 One day, while we were in town, we heard the news: our village had been attacked. The color drained from Fiona’s face. My legs felt like water. What could we do? Where could we go? How could we even think? 

That night, we couldn’t sleep. We found a quiet park and lay on the grass, staring up at Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. We wished it could light our hearts the way it lights up the sky. We spoke in whispers, like the world would shatter if we were too loud. 

“Do you think they’re looking up at the same star?” Fiona asked. 

I wanted to believe they were. That somehow, stars connected us even when war tried to tear us apart. 

The next morning, we returned. Our village… was no longer a village. Homes were collapsed into rubble, the school was ash, the fig tree we loved was scorched and split.

It wasn’t destruction, it was erasure. 

We stood frozen. The air smelled like smoke and silence. I remember clutching Fiona’s hand until it hurt, trying to keep from falling apart. We searched. We ran. We screamed names into the wind. No answer. 

The war had taken everything from me, but through the smoke 

And ruin, one thing remained certain: I had a friend. Not just any friend, but a soul so rare, she felt like the last light in a collapsing world. We were each other’s anchor, each other’s home. She was the warmth in a world gone cold. 

Until the war took her too. 

She had gone back to find something, some memory, some keepsake. 

I never saw her again.. 

When they told me, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just went silent, as if my voice had left with her. The brightest part of my world had vanished. That night, I looked up at the sky again, and Sirius didn’t shine the same. 

I kept going, because that’s what people do. But I’ve never truly come back from that place. Sometimes I wonder why I survived when so many didn’t. Sometimes I dream of her calling my name, and I wake up with tears in my throat. 

 I often find myself lying beneath the stars. There’s comfort in the sky, it doesn’t burn or fall or leave. Just lights quietly existing. 

Sometimes, I write to her. I never read the letters out loud, but I keep them. 

“Dear Fiona, 

It’s been years, but I still see your face whenever I close my eyes. You once told me stars don’t really disappear, they just move further away. Maybe that’s what happened to you. Maybe you’re somewhere beyond Sirius, still watching, still waiting. There’s so much I want to tell you. I never got to say goodbye. I still search for the mole on your right arm whenever someone else reaches for me. As if I’m trying to find you in hands that aren’t yours. But every time I see a lone star, I whisper hello. 

 Love always, 

Lindsey.”

 War took my home. It took my family. It took the one person who made the world bearable. But it couldn’t take everything. It couldn’t take the memories. The river. The way Fiona laughed like she was daring the universe to stop her. 

 And it couldn’t take the stars. Not even Sirius 

So I keep walking. I keep remembering. And I keep looking up, because in a sky full of darkness, even one light is enough. 

And to me, the brightest star in the sky was never Sirius. 

It was Fiona.

Yara is a writer from Lebanon, a country defined by its beauty and struggle. Her work delves into themes of loss, memory, and the human spirit in the face of hardship. A jack of all trades, Yara enjoys dabbling in everything, finding inspiration in life’s complexities.