It was never meant to be read aloud. Just something Christopher wrote one night while the moon felt too close and his chest too full.
He folded it into his sketchbook, behind a drawing of Donny's hands and a small watercolor wash of Benjamin's eyes.
Then Donny found it.
He didn't mean to. But the edge of the paper peeked out like it wanted attention. So he read:
Sometimes I feel like I'm a flicker in their sky - not a star, just a blur. But then Benjamin laughs, and Donny listens, and I remember: I belong here. I'm not background. I'm part of the painting.
I love them. Not out of desperation - but out of awe. Out of wanting to see them become everything they're afraid to be.
Donny read it twice. Then handed it to Benjamin without speaking.
Benjamin read it. Cried quietly.
That evening, they set up candles on Donny's porch, soft music playing. Christopher arrived late, saw their faces, froze.
Benjamin pressed the letter to his chest. "I want you to know - you're the brightest part of our sky."
Donny wrapped his arms around Christopher from behind. "You're not a flicker. You're the flame."
Christopher, overwhelmed, whispered, "I didn't know it would matter."
Benjamin kissed his cheek. "Everything you say matters."
They stayed up late, rereading the letter, sipping tea, staring at constellations - like the universe had made room just for their small, beautiful world.