𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “The Tale the Stars Have Yet to Tell” by Allaina Roane M. Blanquisco

Published by: Francen Anne Perez

Date Published: August 26, 2025

Time Published: 5:50 PM 

Category: Prose

Subject: Yearning

Somewhere beyond the veil of now, where time folds like origami and wind whispers promises through the folds, I know you are walking toward me. Perhaps not with haste, not with the thunder of urgency, but with the steady pulse of inevitability. I feel you in the stillness between clock ticks, in the hush before the sun greets me. I have known you in dreams so vivid they stained the morning. You are the echo of a story the stars haven’t told yet, and I am the parchment waiting for your ink.

I wear patience like a shawl, tattered at the edges from nights of longing, yet woven strong with the thread of belief. My heart is a garden locked in winter, soil sleeping, roots dreaming. But I feel the thrum of spring beneath the frost, the surety of warmth stirring just out of reach.

You are the sun I’ve never touched, yet my skin already remembers how to burn. 

The sky tells me you’re coming. It changes its blues when I think of you. I’ve seen clouds crack open with light just when my heart falters, as if the heavens themselves were trying to whisper: 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯. I press my palms to the window, watching stars I cannot name, knowing somewhere beneath their watchful glow, your breath fogs glass just like mine.

I am the lonely cathedral and you, the unseen pilgrim. I’ve lit candles in my soul that will not extinguish, flickering through years, through storms, through silence. I’ve built altars out of hope and songs I hum without melody. My love is incense, burning sweet and unseen, rising into the hush, into the maybe, into the someday.

At times, my yearning takes the shape of birds—wild, untethered—flapping against the cage of my ribs. Other times, it is a quiet tide, rising in my chest, pulling me toward the idea of you. I walk along the shore of the future, toes tracing the wet sand of not-yet, watching for footprints coming to meet mine. I do not ache passively—I ache like thunder under skin, like lightning trapped in bone. My soul doesn’t just long; it howls. It bleeds color into grayscale mornings. I am a gallery of empty frames, all waiting for your face—for the art of you. The world is artless until you step into it.

I imagine our meeting like myth. Not sudden, but seismic. Not a collision, but an unfolding—like the sea finally reaching the sky. We will look at each other and say nothing at first, because everything will already be understood. I won’t need to ask your name. I’ve written it a thousand times in the margins of my mind. 

Sometimes I wonder if you feel it too—this soft hunger, this silent thread pulling you forward. Perhaps you pause in doorways, heart fluttering without reason. Perhaps you turn around on quiet streets, certain someone just called your soul. It’s me. It’s always been me.

I imagine us in parallel lives, two gold strings in the loom of the universe, weaving closer with each pass. Maybe you are learning how to carry love like water—gentle, strong, unspilled. And I, I am learning to be the vessel that can receive it without shattering.

Celestial beings write us in invisible ink, constellations holding space where we will one day meet. The cosmos keeps secrets like seeds, buried deep, needing time and dark to bloom. I do not rush the harvest. I simply keep tending this waiting, watering it with hope, letting sunlight and time work their old magic. 

And when it happens—when you step from the dream into the day—it will be the moment time exhales. No trumpets. No fanfare. Just gravity shifting. Just the world adjusting to its proper shape. And I will say, not in surprise, but in reverence: 𝘈𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦.