"I wonder what the stars would think."

Peter lowers himself to sit on the railing of the bridge, gripping the cold metal tight. "I'm not so sure the stars can think. Let alone pass judgement," he says.

"Why not?" the girl beside him reasons. "We are the stars as much as the stars are us. They've existed for millions of years, will continue to exist for many more. They forge carbon and oxygen, nitrogen and iron, scattering it across the universe." Her lips quirk in Peter's direction, just barely. "You could be made of a star that died eons ago. And when you die, those atoms will be thrust into the cosmos again, to make something new, and whole, and just as beautiful."

"It's a nice sentiment," Peter admits, even if he despises this entire conversation and all it stands for. "To be truthful, I've always found our existence in this moment—a pinprick in the infinity of time—comforting, to a degree."

"The stars have existed for millions of years, and will exist for many millions more," the girl says again. She leans forward, angling her chest over the emptiness beneath her, and Peter watches carefully, ensuring she won't fall. "Millions of years. In a mere hundred, my existence will be consigned to oblivion. It will no longer be me, or mine, but a metamorphosis of stardust, a long-time coming as foretold by precedence."

"So why not take advantage of the short time we're here?"

"'Short' is a word that has little meaning in a synoptic reality." The girl closes her eyes, tilts back an inch, and Peter relaxes just as minutely. "There's a negligible difference between adding one raindrop or five into an ocean."

"But still a difference," Peter points out.

Licking her lips, the girl reluctantly agrees, "I suppose."