There was once a little boy who believed that he could talk to the stars.
Of course, everyone laughed at him because of that. "Talk to the stars?" His schoolmates asked mockingly. "What do they say to you?"
"Can they tell you the answers for the next test?" asked his best friend anxiously, fumbling with the endless stacks of books that seemed to cover his desk. "I really need to do well on it..."
"Naah naah naah, someone's got his head in the clouds!" the other classmates mocked. "Tell us another fib, dreamer!"
His sister was just as bad. "Oh, he means movie stars or soccer stars," she'd tell his unbelieving relatives when they came around. "It's just a joke that he likes to make, don't you?" And she would look pleadingly at him, her brown eyes pleading for some semblance of normalcy.
He never answered either, although anyone who looked at his eyes would tell you that they burned as brightly and as furiously as the stars that he claimed he talked to.
His parents, if it was possible, were worse. "Stars talk to you?" his dad would chortle. "That's great! They're very very old; you could possibly make tons of money from what they know." And he'd wink at him around his newpaper, spread tautly between his huge hands. "How about we go cycling on your new bicycle? We'll have a picnic, and then you can tell me what they tell you."
"Exactly," his mother would join in. "A boy like you should go out in the sun more often, it's not healthy to always stay at home."
But he didn't listen. Yes, the sun was a star alright, but he didn't need to go out to talk to the sun. He talked to him perfectly fine through his bedroom window.
"Nobody believes me!" He complained one exceptionally sunny day, where there were no clouds to block any rays of light. "Why don't they trust me, just 'cause they can't talk to the stars." And he sulked, but you must remember that he was too young to know better.
The sun flared brightly in sympathy. "Humans often fail to listen beyond their physical senses. Would you believe anyone who said they could talk to the Moon?"
The boy scoffed. "The Moon's just a hunk of rock!"
"Don't be so rude to the Moon, however true it seems," admonished the Sun, temporarily blinding the boy by suddenly reflecting off a window. "She may be a rock, but she's beautiful and has her own personality. It's just that you've never talked to her."
The boy thought about it. "I see. I'm sorry."
"So how are you going to solve your problem, now that you've understood it?"
That was a tough question. The boy thought, and thought, and thought, as the sun threw his rays over the joyful grass and trees. And finally, as the sun was slinking away from the boy's line of vision, the latter jumped up from his window seat and cried out, "I know! I'd tell the scientists! If I can prove it, everyone will listen."
"That's good," the sun said muffedly, and sank below the horizon. He may have liked the little boy, as he liked all those who took the time to talk to him, but Earth wouldn't stop for one silly little boy.
The said silly little boy was now trying to convince his parents to let him see the scientists, but was firmly told that he'd have to wait for morning.
The very next morning, far earlier than his sister would ever wake up, the little boy packed a few of his important things, which included a star book, and went to the Science Centre.