I saw another shooting star last night.

On the night of the new moon, the sky can look so empty. There's no orb there, hanging motionless and pale, spilling its opalescent light upon the ground. There are just stars-- stars so bright they shine like diamonds against the sky's black velvet.

Up here at the college, you're lucky if you can make out the Big Dipper and Orion on the clearest of nights-- there's too much interference and artificial light to see much else. But fifteen minutes out, and that's all you see when you look up, hundreds of stars filling the bowl of the sky.

We get out of the car at his house, and the midnight air is still. Silent. I look up in awe.

"That's nothing," he says, and grabs my hand. We make our way down the hill to the backyard. "How do you feel about climbing?"

Moments later, we're standing on the roof, high above the ground. I don't think I've ever seen so many stars-- all of the constellations jumbled together, and I make out the pale smear of the Milky Way against the brilliant, innumerable pinpricks of light overhead. He holds me from behind, steadies me as I crane my neck to take it all in.

And just like that, a falling star streaks across the sky, towards Polaris. Towards true North.

"You know, I'd only seen four shooting stars in my life, but I've seen two since I've met you. I wonder why that is," I murmur. He says nothing in response. He kisses the back of my neck, holds me tighter.

The view is incredible-- I'd love to print out some star charts, spend a few lazy humid summer nights up there in search of unfamiliar constellations. I am, after all, a city girl-- so much of the celestial sphere is a mystery to me.

And now I must go-- it's time to study for my first exam of my last exam week. Astronomy. Strange how everything in my life as of late has been so symbolic, so circular. Sometimes, you just have to know how to read the signs, how to chart the stars.