Post TLJ. AU. Quick drabble. Bittersweet Reylo.

It was an afterthought.

Not quite a fleeting one, like that of the passing of a dying star or a whimper in the vast expanse of the galaxy. It haunted her still in these nights—these nights that had neither silence nor disturbance but a whisper so fine and faint, like the barest strum of a cord that bind her to him miles and miles away across the universe.

It remained as a treacherous sentiment when she reminisced of the ebb and flow of their energies as one, a tide that builds and breaks and rebuilds anew into a perfect maelstrom—how he simply completes her whole, the moment their fingertips almost touch. She was certain that there was a strong gust from the shore, the crackle of lightning that split the darkened skies in two, yet the memory burned with his eyes; his eyes that held a warring storm so great and ferocious that she had to wonder how the intensity of one gaze could also remain soft.

Beautiful in its weakness, its poignant tragedy. The conflict within him that rushed forth in waves that crashed against the rocks and lapped upon them in hopes of desperately ceasing the unrest, the imbalance that set him at the edge of his world.

"Rey."

Then there came the collision, the igniting of a million stars in the cosmos, just from the utter of her name on his mouth. It was a sound that straddled between a plead and a demand, an undecided question of to be and not to be—and it hurt her every time, how painfully familiar it was spoken from the lips of this monster—this man. "Please," he whispered, and she found herself losing orbit of her own axis.

It almost destroyed her.

And it reminded bitterly from the tremble of her heart that stung of betrayal.

"Rey."

At the corner of her room, Kylo Ren was still there beckoning for her, like that of the night chasing after the setting sun.

From the grave shadows on his face, the memory stalked her in her dreams where she could still recall the warmth of a fire, the croon of the rain pitter-pattering, and the private thought of what could have been from the echo of his reaching voice, as she clung onto the hope of a dead star, stagnant amidst an ever present sky. That, maybe, an old spark was all it needed to come alight—and maybe he could find his way again.

However that was a time when they were once both grappling on the opposite end of the spectrum, meeting in that middle where boundaries were rendered unmade and history unspoken.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars.