People called her Luna. I’ll not describe her by her beauty nor by goodness of heart because both are subjective, and since she now lives in a place that isn’t her own, it’s best to describe her as just someone who is in many ways different. For example, she has purple, wavy hair while others have straight, bright-orange locks. And she whistles and whispers while others speak in deep, creaky voice. You can’t imagine how being different frustrated her a lot, but she soon taught herself how to act like the people in her new place.
They say the act of changing is also an act of letting go. Thus, the more she adopted to her new life, the more she forgot about her previous one. Yet, nothing was more important for her than making her loved one happy, even if it meant abandoning her true self.
But her love never liked outsiders. That’s why even if he said he loved her, he looked at her as someone unfinished. Never truly acceptable.
This made her really sad. So every day, she focused on changing herself until at last, after many years of trying, she became like him and his people in every way. Even the scent of her hair was no longer her own. It was now the smell of butter and dried lemon that covered the back of their house. She forgot how to speak in whispers. While before she cried a lot, now she couldn’t even remember how a drop of tear felt like.
Why was there water in other people's eyes? She wondered.
We know the process of forgetting has become complete.
One day, she discovered something strange. She found out that for every time she felt a squeeze in her heart, for every time she felt a tug inside, some kind of longing for something lost, rain fell in another universe. Light rain sometimes, like fragments from a broken mirror. Sometimes they’re like a deluge.
Today at exactly 3 am, rain fell softly on my window, like a shadow from above. It reminded me of Luna, who had off-white fingernails the shape of seashells. I wonder how she is.