Once, I believed we were a constellation—rare, luminous, defying norms, a once-in-a-lifetime wonder. But now, I see we are merely city lights, flickering in the same tired patterns, dimmed by the smog of expectations, entanglements, and the echoes of others' voices. The extraordinary was only the ordinary in disguise—until the clock struck twelve. Or am I just being cynical? Is it too soon to let go of the fairytale?