That was three years ago. Today, she is thirty-two. She still works nights, but now she keeps a journal in her locker—a blue one with a cracked spine. She still holds dying children’s hands, but now she lets herself cry in the break room afterward, and the other nurses don’t stare. They bring her tea.
The first time Justdanica broke, she was seven. justdanica
She doesn’t tell them the rest. That a morning star is not a star at all, but a planet—Venus—the one that shines brightest just before dawn, when the night is darkest. The one that refuses to go out. That was three years ago
And when people ask her name, that strange, beautiful name— Justdanica —she smiles and says, “It means ‘morning star.’ My grandmother believed in second chances.” She still holds dying children’s hands, but now
When the tears stopped, the rain had stopped, too. The world smelled like wet asphalt and something green—something growing.
She screamed.