Ayla

As a child, my best friend was the moon.

She was my only confidant—the only relationship in my short life that never abandoned me. She never judged.

She was my first teacher. Through her, I learned the cycles of the world: pain, grief, loss, and death. But as a child, I never felt lonely, because my best friend was the moon.

As time passed, I began to grow older, as we all do, and slowly, I began to abandon my old friend. In doing so, I unknowingly hurt the little girl who needed her most.

I started looking for the moon in people, in things outside myself. With each passing year, the little girl inside me grew weaker, more hopeless. Eventually, she gave up searching for her best friend.

The moon would still call out to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Perhaps it was my own avoidance that drowned out her voice.

I never stopped looking for the moon, but I searched in all the wrong places. Over time, I forgot what I was really seeking.

Loneliness became my only friend—but no one ever tells you how possessive he is. No one tells you the weight of the physical pain he brings to every meal, to every moment.

Despair tightened its grip around my throat. And it was in that darkness, at the moment when I thought I could bear no more, that I saw the moon through my window for the first time in thirty years.

She greeted me as if no time had passed, her light washing over me like a tight, comforting hug.

As she pulled me closer, she whispered, “You know, I never left you, right? I always knew you would find your way back when you were ready.”

In that moment, I felt lighter than I ever had before. And I realized what she had been trying to teach me all along: I never needed the moon. I had everything I ever sought within myself.

I may not need the moon anymore, but I will always be grateful that, in the end, that little girl found her best friend again.