My Moon Disappeared Forever

I don’t remember the first day I met Ayesha. Our mothers say we were only three years old, playing in the same street, chasing the same red ball. But if you ask me, it feels like she was always there, like she came with the world itself.

We grew up in the same neighbourhood, in those narrow streets where the houses stood close enough to share secrets. She lived directly across from me, and every morning she would knock on my window and say the same sentence, “Wake up, sleepy star. The world is waiting.”

I never understood why she called me that. But she said it with so much confidence that I believed her.

We went to school together, did homework together, even got in trouble together. She was brave, loud, and full of ideas. I was quieter, the type who thought too much before speaking. She never let me stay silent for long.

When we were ten, she dragged me to the rooftop at night and pointed at the moon.

“Look at it,” she said. “If the moon ever disappears, I’ll come back as its replacement. I don’t want you to walk in darkness.”

She laughed and teased me for believing her, but I never forgot those words.

As we grew older, things around us changed, but our friendship stayed the same. We fought sometimes—small fights, the kind you forget after one good meal. She dreamed of becoming an artist; I dreamed of becoming something… I didn’t know what. She said I’d figure it out one day

Life felt simple with her. Easy. Balanced. Like the world had exactly the right amount of light.

But the world rarely stays kind forever.

It started with small things: she became tired too often, stopped running, stopped laughing loudly. Her mother said it was just stress from exams. Ayesha brushed it off whenever I asked.

But one evening, when she didn’t show up at my door, I knew something was wrong.

The next day her father told me she was in the hospital. The way he said it—slow, careful, as if speaking too loudly would make everything worse—made my stomach drop.

I visited her every day. She tried to smile, but it was different. Her eyes still had the same kindness, but the spark was fading, like a candle burning the last bit of its wick.

One night, when the nurses had left us alone, she whispered,

“Do you think the moon ever gets tired of shining?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It's the moon. It doesn’t get tired.”

She nodded, but her eyes looked far away.

“Everything gets tired eventually.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her to stop talking like that, but the words stuck in my throat.

A few days later, she was gone.

The world continued as if nothing had changed, but for me, everything felt wrong—too quiet, too empty. The street looked the same, the houses looked the same, but without her voice, the place didn’t feel like home.

That night, I climbed to the rooftop—the same one where she once laughed under the moonlight. The sky was clear, the stars were scattered like dust…but the moon wasn’t there.

Not hidden behind clouds. Not a thin crescent.

Just gone.

For the first time in my life, I understood what true darkness felt like. Not the kind you see, but the kind you feel inside your chest.

I looked at the empty sky and whispered,

“You promised you’d come back as the moon.”

No answer. Only silence.

But as the wind touched my face—soft, warm, almost familiar—I felt something settle inside me. Not healing, not yet. But a small reminder of her presence.

The moon didn’t appear that night. It was the only night I ever saw it vanish completely.

But maybe that was her way of telling me she kept her promise.

Even if I couldn’t see her, she was still there—somewhere in the darkness, holding the sky together for me.

Just like she always did.