Do not cry, my dear. You see, men like him chase dimming stars, the most visible, blinking ones: flashing, burning, dying. Unstable.
But you are strong.
You are far too bright,
far too precious to be consumed.
Men like him are blinded by your light—fear it even. It pierces their void and makes them question.
So do not mimic the flashing.
Do not mimic the dying.
Do not waste your power—
your precious stardust—
on someone who does not value your light.
Keep your head up, dear. You are made of stars.