Annyka Dela Cruz
“Can you believe the moon tonight?” I say, looking up at the blanket of clouds — just barely showing the full luminescent orb of the night sky. I waited for it come full circle and motioned for him to look.
When he looked, the moonlight started to illuminate the face that’s too familiar for me that my chest started to flinch; the kind of flinch when you finally realize that you’ve been in a losing game all this time.
“We should go,” his eyes detaching from the moon and the wholeness of him separating from me, completely, slowly, gradually, painfully.
He started to walk; his back towards me and I happen to squeeze out a small, quiet, “wait.”
He turned to face me, his eyes still struggling to look away. “What for?”
“Maybe, we shouldn’t take the light of the moon for granted,” I say, unaware of how irrevocably hopeless I sound. “Maybe we should wait for it to dim down, before we leave.”
He didn’t argue but quietly looked up. I wondered whether he prayed for the moon to continue its ardent radiance so we didn’t have to leave each other. I wondered if deep in the puzzles he’s keeping, there’s still a piece of me he hasn’t totally thrown away yet. I wondered if he loved me still.
I watched the moon and pleaded to the astrological forces to send me a miracle and grant the moon the brightest night it would ever illume.
But I watched the clouds cover the slowly dimming sphere and I knew I had to let go completely, slowly, gradually, painfully.