Luna Vani

Joined November 2025

78 stories

Bio

I gather broken pieces and turn them into light

Stories (78)

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The Ghostwriter's Ransom
I have spent the last decade being the voice of people who have nothing to say. I am a professional ghostwriter. If you’ve walked through an airport bookstore in the last five years, you’ve seen my work. You just haven’t seen my name. I’ve written memoirs for starlets who can’t spell "autobiography," and "thought leadership" books for CEOs who haven’t had an original thought since 1998.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Confessions
Anxiety Nobody Sees
No one ever asks about the quiet ones. They ask about the loud pain—the grief that cries in public, the anger that breaks things, the sadness that wears its face openly. But the anxiety that behaves itself, that shows up on time and smiles politely, is rarely questioned. It learns early how to stay invisible.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Psyche
The Museum of Unfinished Echoes
The blank canvas doesn't just stare; it judges. In 2026, we are surrounded by the "perfect." We have algorithms that can predict the next hit song, AI that can render a flawless sunset in seconds, and social feeds that filter the grit out of existence. But there is a specific, cold terror that exists in the space between having an idea and bringing it into the light.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Humans
The Silent Sentinels
The sun does not simply rise over the Giza plateau; it ignites it. As the first amber rays catch the limestone casing of the Great Pyramid, the structure seems to hum with an ancient, tectonic energy. For five millennia, these geometric titans have watched empires crumble into the silt of the Nile, remaining the only members of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World to defy the erosion of time.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in History
The Calculus of Petals
The garden does not count the days, nor fret the coming frost; it simply holds the amber rays before the light is lost. We are the ones who measure bloom,
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Poets
The Rebellion of the Unseen
At the end of last December, the world felt thick. I was recovering from a misdiagnosed staph infection that had turned my body into a battlefield, but the physical pain was only half the weight. Between the high-stakes demands of a Director-level job, the intricate dance of co-parenting, and the quiet responsibilities of being a wife, I felt like I was moving through a room filling slowly with honey.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Journal
Small Decisions, Big Consequences
History rarely announces itself with thunder. More often, it arrives quietly—on the soles of ordinary shoes, in pauses between breaths, in decisions so small they barely feel like choices at all.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in History
She Who Walks My Sleep
She comes without footsteps, slips through the unlocked doors of my sleep, a hush moving through corridors I never meant to build.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Poets
Why Stories Matter
In a world crowded with headlines, notifications, and endless scrolling, stories remain one of the few things that can still make us stop. Not pause out of obligation, but pause because something inside us recognizes itself. Long before we had screens, stories were how we survived. Long before we had facts neatly organized into textbooks, stories were how we understood them. And even now—especially now—stories continue to matter more than we often realize.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Writers
Why Guilt Feels Physical
Guilt is supposed to live in the mind. It is categorized as an emotion, filed neatly beside regret, shame, and remorse. Yet anyone who has truly felt guilt knows it refuses to stay contained. It creeps into the chest like a weight, knots the stomach, tightens the throat, and sometimes aches in places we cannot name. Guilt does not just feel emotional—it feels physical. And there is a reason for that.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Psyche
I Didn’t Feel Like a Criminal
I didn’t feel like a criminal. Criminals, I thought, were loud in their wrongdoing—reckless, intentional, almost proud of the harm they caused. They wore guilt like a jacket they could take off at the door. They planned. They rehearsed. They crossed lines with a sense of certainty.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Criminal
Grandmother
Grandmother, your hands were the first map I learned to read— rivers of time, soft hills of sacrifice, lines that carried our family forward
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Poets