A/N: I'm not proud of this. Like, at all. I was desperate to get something out on time for day 2 of PandoraHearts Week 2020, even though inspiration was most definitely not striking. I think the concept of this is fine, but it could have been executed infinitely better. Oh well!

It rained this afternoon, and Lacie can feel the bottoms of her thighs getting wet from the grass. The hem of her dress is just slightly stained with dirt and dew; it brushed the ground once or twice, but a color so rich and deep is not easily tainted.

She's not supposed to be out here. It's late, almost midnight, but she couldn't resist—the crisp, cool air was calling her, whispering her name with a gentle gust through her hair. Summer evenings are beautifully subtle. She supposes it's notions like these that make people think she's strange.

"Lacie?"

She turns in a slight, sharp motion, mildly startled. It's Jack. Of course. Of course it is. Should she start expecting him everywhere she goes?

The twinge of resentment she feels at this surprises her, but she dismisses it—she does not love Jack, nor hate him. He is merely a presence in her life, a mildly entertaining spectre that follows as if bound to her by fate. She is not attached.

"I see you found me."

She smiles without looking at him, almost but not quite teasing. She did this all the time when she was younger. It would drive men insane, the suggestion of having her but never the offer. She liked seeing the madness on their faces, the desire. When she'd toyed with them for too long, they would spit poison at her, entangled lust and frustration, things like, Who do you think you are? She would just laugh.

She wishes, just once, that Jack would act like them.

"I noticed you weren't inside, so I figured you'd be out here somewhere," he says, and he smiles back at her—but it's all wrong. There's no mischief in the way his lips curve upwards, eyes glinting with satisfaction. He doesn't want her. The way he looks at her—he knows he'll never have her. But somehow, he's already fulfilled by watching her.

A flare of irritation makes her freeze. She doesn't care about Jack, not really, but she enjoys playing with him—the way one might with an amusingly loyal puppy. If anything, by now, he's boring. Everything she does satisfies him. She gives him nothing, and yet he acts like he has everything he needs.

Impossible.

See, Lacie does not want Jack. If he wanted her, she would push him away, but he doesn't want her. And the confusion that comes with that—his unwavering wish to be around her, though he shows no interest in being her lover—is somehow worse.

His dedication to her sounds like the perfect love, after all. It's the stuff fairy tales are built on. He's the prince, devastatingly faithful, willing to do anything to reunite with his princess. But something is off. She can feel it, teetering dangerously on the edge of excess, balancing precariously at the border of delirium. It's all wrong. He does not love her.

She feels him sit next to her, and they are both silent, gazing up at the night sky. She thinks to herself that though the darkness steals vision, at least it has depth. There's soul beyond that veil of navy and black, murmurs of mystery and solitude, the seductive lure of slumber.

The stars are lovely for a while, small glimmers of promise and hope. But as the minutes tick past, it becomes impossible to ignore. The constant light bleeds through her eyes. She has never seen anything so brutally consistent and candid. A thousand small needles, colorless and cold, shine ruthlessly. Ever unchanging, yet passionless.

Jack is a star.