Before I was born, before I took my first breath, I was stardust. I would open my eyes, and all around me were swirling galaxies and dazzling stars. I watched universes collapse upon themselves and reform again. The cold emptiness of space was comforting, too – it was all I’d ever known. 

Even without a body and without a mind, I couldn’t help but dance there. All I could feel within me was joy and peace, warmth and safety. At some point, I started to feel someone else, too – dancing by my side, with the same warmth and happiness that I had. I never wanted to leave. 

Far too soon, though, I felt something grabbing me, pulling me away. The universe seemed to billow around me, sweeping me away like the violent gales of a hurricane and casting me to Earth before I could protest. I became an infant; in my first moments, I took a feeble breath and began to cry. Most people say that babies cry after being born as a way to clear their lungs, but I always found myself wondering if I was mourning, crying out at the loss of the place I called home. I had a family who loved me, who cherished me, but I still felt so lost and alone. Where was I, and where was my companion? Where was the presence I had grown to love so much? 

Eventually, though, I forgot the truth of my origins. I grew and grew, and I began to adjust to the feeling of being alive. I found new passions that came with this life, too; the warmth of a campfire, the satisfaction of a home-cooked meal, and a bounty of other things I could never experience within space. This world, initially something I had perceived to be lacking in beauty, became just as beautiful to me as my first home had once been. I was no longer scared to live, and I had lost much of my bitter longing for what came before. These new feelings were nearly enough to satiate my loneliness. 

Truly, though, the emptiness that lingered was washed away when I met Ivy. 

It was a warm summer day, just after my ninth birthday. I was scrambling around a playground with my friends, ignoring the searing feeling of the plastic slides that had baked in the sun or the grit of woodchips in my shoes. I had emerged from the play-place when I first saw her, and I swear my breath was sucked from my chest. 

Other kids probably wouldn’t have called her beautiful, but there was something I couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was the scrapes on her knees, or maybe it was the boyish outfit she adorned as she chased down another child our age. Maybe it was the way she laughed – a clear, almost musical sound – or the way she poked her tongue from her mouth when she was deeply concentrating. Maybe, even, it was the gaps in her teeth when she smiled. She probably had the brightest, most genuine smile I’d ever seen in my life. 

I found myself standing taller, jutting my chin out high and straightening my posture. I wanted, more than anything, for her to see me standing there. Even as my friends tried to drag me away, back to our games, I couldn’t keep my mind from whirling. I’d be happy in life, I figured, if she would just look at me. 

It was September of the same year when I first heard her name. Our teacher, an ancient woman with curly gray hair, called Ivy’s name. I turned my head and there she was, hand raised proudly. Her messy brown hair had been pulled back into two braids, but they were already seeming to fall apart. Her eyes gleamed proudly, and I was stunned as they caught my gaze, heart leaping excitedly in my chest. 

Ivy smiled at me. I smiled right back. 

As we grew older, Ivy and I spoke more and more. One day, we’d have a project together in class, and we’d play kickball together the next. Ivy became my closest, dearest friend, and the warmth she gave me couldn’t be matched. 

On the weekends, our moms would sit together in the kitchen, sipping wine from fancy glasses and discussing the past week. Meanwhile, Ivy and I would be sprawled out on her bedroom floor, talking. Our conversations were never contained to one specific thing; we talked about anything and everything. We talked about schoolwork, conspiracy theories, and that delicious recipe her mom had just made. We talked about my new kitten, or the mean boys at school, or the way that October’s weather was always Ivy’s favorite. 

I swear, most of the time we just talked to hear each other’s voices. 

Even in our teenage years we reveled in each other’s company. Ivy would open up to me about her terrible boyfriends, and I would welcome her with open arms, allowing her to sob and cry to me in their absence. She listened to me as I came to terms with my sexuality, and she helped to soothe the mind-numbing anxiety that my new identity brought me. We went to prom together, even, and I felt deeply, truly complete as she twirled me around and told me how beautiful I looked in my dress. 

We went to the same university, and we shared a dorm. Half of the nights, I would wake to find her sprawled out next to me, her long, messy hair splayed across her back. The other half would end in me waking up on the floor beside her bed, my cheek stuck to the wooden floor after a night of snoring and drooling. Every day was spent with Ivy now, whether we were watching stupid sitcoms on TV or cooking together in our small kitchen. I couldn’t have been any happier. 

Despite all odds, though, she told me that she loved me before I ever plucked up the nerve to do the same. In an instant, though, with only a few words, she’d sealed her place in my heart. I was hers, and she was mine. 

Before I was born, before I even took my first breath, I was stardust. Even then, before we had names or bodies, Ivy was with me, dancing at my side amongst the glimmering clouds, watching with me as the galaxies around us twirled. 

We were born from the same star, I think. We were destined to meet in our earthly lives by the universe itself, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.