After The Moon

I opened Moonlight with nothing but a quiet thought.

The empty page didn’t feel empty. It felt patient.

I wrote a title — and suddenly the story had a name.

The cursor blinked, waiting for me to be honest.

So I started with a single line. Then another.

until I shaped them with headings.

Now they had direction.

Now they could breathe.

The background was still plain,

so I turned it into night.

Dark, soft, familiar —

like the place where this story was born.

It needed a memory, not just text.

I added an image of the moon.

Everything felt complete,

like the story finally recognized itself.

I stopped writing.

For a second, I just looked at it.

This wasn’t a draft anymore.

This was something real.

I pressed publish.

And far away, on another screen,

my words became someone else’s silence.