A story of the moon and boy : your life

The Boy Who Talked to the Moon

(A Quiet Story for Anyone Who’s Ever Looked Up)

Every night, at 10:47 — not because he set a reminder, but because that’s when the streetlight outside his window flickered on and painted a crooked shadow across his wall — Arun would climb onto the flat roof of his uncle’s house in Rajajinagar.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not his cousins, not his busy aunt who counted rupees at the end of every day like prayers. He’d just slip out, barefoot, with a stolen blanket and a half-finished pack of Parle-G biscuits.

And he’d sit.

Not doing homework. Not scrolling. Not chasing likes.

Just… looking.

At her.

The moon.

Not the moon from science class — not “Earth’s natural satellite,” not “384,400 km away,” not “no atmosphere.” No. His moon.

The one who never interrupted.

The one who showed up, no matter what.

The one who changed her face but never ghosted him.

Some nights, she was full — round, bright, almost smug, like she knew a secret. Other nights, just a sliver, a silver fingernail scratching the sky. And once, during a lunar eclipse, she turned red — like she was angry, or sad, or both.

And Arun? He talked.

Not out loud. Never out loud. But in his head — whole conversations.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he’d think, after the argument at dinner.

“When Appa yelled. When I said nothing. When I walked away.”

The moon didn’t answer.

But she listened.

And that was enough.

Arun wasn’t sad, not exactly.

He wasn’t broken.

But he was… full.

Full of things he couldn’t say.

Like how he missed his father’s old laugh — the one before the hospital visits, before the silences.

Like how he wanted to study astronomy, but everyone said, “Beta, be realistic. Be a doctor. Be an engineer.”

Like how he sometimes cried during movies about space — not because they were sad, but because everything out there felt free, while he felt stuck.

So the moon became his diary. His confessional. His best friend who never needed Wi-Fi.

Sometimes, he’d whisper one word:

“Still here?”

And she’d glow.

And he’d know: Yeah. Still here.

One night, his little cousin Mira found him.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just climbed up, clutching her stuffed rabbit, and sat beside him, crunching a biscuit.

They watched in silence for a while.

Then she said, “You come here every night, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

He thought. Then smiled. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Who?”

He looked up. She was full again — calm, kind, watching over the city like a quiet guardian.

“My other half,” he said softly. “The part of me that knows it’s okay to be quiet. That it’s okay to just… be.”

Mira didn’t understand. Not really.

But she leaned her head on his shoulder anyway.

And for the first time, the moon didn’t feel so far away.

Years later, Arun would be on a flight to Bangalore, a job in tech, a life that looked “successful” on paper.

But sometimes — when the world felt too loud, too fast, too much — he’d step outside. Look up.

And if she was there — even just a curve, a whisper in the sky — he’d pause.

And smile.

Because some friendships don’t need words.

Some love doesn’t need proof.

And some light travels 384,400 km just to say:

“I see you. I’ve always seen you.”

So tonight —

if you’re feeling small,

or lost,

or like no one really gets you —

just look up.

She’s there.

Quiet.

Constant.

Yours.

And if you listen closely,

you might just hear the universe whisper back:

“You’re not alone.”

🌙💛