I will always share the same moon as hers.
However far she has gone — down the road, across an ocean, into a life I don’t get to see anymore, into a quiet I never wanted — none of it reaches the sky. The moon doesn’t measure miles. It doesn’t count the years between two people, or take sides, or forget a face. It only knows how to rise, and how to be seen, and how to pour the same soft light over everyone it loves, all at once.
So tonight it finds her first. It lays its light across her shoulders the way I would, if I could reach that far. It sits at the foot of her bed like something loyal, and watches over her sleep. And then — in the very same breath — it turns, crosses all that dark, and comes to find me at my window too.
The same light. The same moon. Touching us both.
We are not as far apart as the map insists. We are two people under one lamp left burning in the hallway of the sky. When she looks up, she is looking at the exact thing I am looking at — and our eyes meet there, in that white and quiet place, even when nothing else can bring them together.
And when I miss her — and I do, and I will, I always will —
I don’t have to reach for the phone, or the past, or the words I never said.
I only have to step outside.
Because the oldest promise in the world is hanging right up there, where neither of us can ever lose it.
Whatever else changes. Whoever else leaves. However long the road becomes
I will always share the same moon as hers.
And in the only way that has ever really mattered, we are never truly apart.
-aaditya.
