If I had to describe you, I’d describe you as a short Summer Fact one: I hated Summer. My most distant memories were that, I feared summer. The heat intimidated me. My mom took me out to the beach once on a warm Summer. She, herself, had mixed feelings about summer. Then, I clanged on to her so hard because the Sun refused to look away from me. Mom made the night rise earlier.
Fact two: You came and went. I heard people talk. Summer meant fun. Fun meant drugs. Drugs meat jail, I learnt later. Which is where you went hiding in Autumn, Winter and Spring.
Fact three: Summer always complains. When I refused to answer Summer’s calls to go hiking, Summer would constantly message me to come out to go for a swim. When I tell Summer that I hated the Sun, he’d weep about how I loved all but him. How can I love the Sun when my name means Shooting Star?
Fact Four: I don’t have one. Insignificantly, Shooting Star, Your only daughter.