“You know,” I start, my voice failing to hide my hesitation, “Sometimes I like to pretend the moon is there solely to adore me.”
I turn my head to look at her.
“Up there, in the soundless, emotionless void of space, the moon stays, gazing down at me with a total, endless love, as though that is all it is there for. Even in the day, when the moon should be outshined by the sky’s surrounding light, it stays adoring.”
“What about the sun?” She asks.
“Not the sun,” I respond quickly, my voice louder this time. “Never the sun. It is much to harsh to be loved, never mind be capable itself of love.” I crack a small smile in the dark. “The moon, although somewhat cold and distant, is never harsh.”
“I wish to be loved so deeply and so fully that sometimes-”
I raise my hand up to the sky, my fingers grasping for the moon.