"How the Moon Listens”

How the Moon Listens

By[ali Rehman]

A metaphorical poem-story about finding solace in silence and light.

Some nights, the world grows too heavy for words.

You try to speak, but the air feels thick — as if every syllable might sink and drown before it leaves your lips. So you go outside, barefoot, carrying the weight of everything you cannot say.

The night doesn’t ask questions. The stars do not interrupt. And above you, the moon waits — silent, constant, listening.

That’s the thing about the moon. It never talks back, never argues, never looks away. It just listens.

I started talking to the moon when I was twelve. My world was small then — a cracked window, a tired lamp, and the faint hum of loneliness that filled the spaces between my thoughts. My parents were fighting again downstairs, and my voice had learned to stay quiet. But the moon — the moon was always there, hanging like an old friend outside my window.

That night, I whispered to it. Just one small thing — I’m scared.

It didn’t answer, of course. But somehow, the silence it offered was kinder than any words I’d ever heard. The light spilled softly through the glass and brushed against my skin, as if to say, I know.

And maybe that was enough.

Years passed, and life grew louder. There were deadlines, heartbreaks, coffee cups that cooled before I could finish them. People came and went. Some listened half-heartedly, some didn’t listen at all.

But whenever the noise of life became too sharp, I would find myself outside again — searching for that same pale light.

The moon never forgot me.

It saw me at seventeen, sitting on the roof of my house, knees pulled to my chest, trying not to cry over a love that was never really mine. I remember whispering, “Why does it hurt to care?”

The moon didn’t answer. But it tilted its silver face toward me, and for a moment, I felt seen — not as a failure or a fool, but as someone simply trying to understand what it meant to feel.

At twenty-two, I found myself on a park bench after midnight, my phone filled with unsent messages and unspoken apologies. I looked up and said, “I think I’m losing myself.”

The moon shone brighter then — not enough to blind, but enough to remind me that light still existed, even when I couldn’t see it in myself.

You see, the moon doesn’t fix you. It doesn’t offer advice or solutions. It doesn’t ask you to stop crying or to be strong. It just listens until you start hearing yourself again.

And maybe that’s the secret — maybe we don’t always need answers. Sometimes we just need a witness.

Now, whenever life feels too heavy — when my words feel too sharp, or too messy, or too much — I find the nearest patch of night sky and tell the moon everything.

I tell it about the fears I hide behind polite smiles. About the dreams I don’t admit even to my closest friends. About the versions of myself I’ve outgrown but still miss.

And in return, the moon gives me silence — soft, forgiving silence that stretches wide enough to hold all my confessions.

I once asked it, “Do you ever get tired of listening?”

The wind rustled the trees, and the clouds shifted just enough for the moon to peek through again. I imagined it smiling.

Because the moon has been listening for centuries. To lovers whispering in dark gardens. To sailors praying over open seas. To poets who poured their pain into ink. To children with small fears and old souls.

It listens not because it must, but because it can. Because some things are too delicate for noise — they need the quiet gravity of light.

Sometimes, when I talk to the moon, I think about all the others who do the same. Somewhere, miles away, someone else might be standing beneath the same light, whispering their own secrets into the night.

Maybe the moon gathers all our words — every sorrow, every confession, every hope — and turns them into light. Maybe that’s why it glows so brightly.

Maybe every phase — waxing, waning, full, new — is just the moon reminding us that we don’t have to be whole to shine.

Tonight, as I stand by my window again, the world outside feels quiet but alive. The air carries the faint hum of distant traffic, and the sky is brushed with silver clouds.

“Are you still listening?” I ask softly.

The moon doesn’t answer — it just lingers, gentle and patient, as it always has.

And I realize — maybe it never needed to speak. Maybe listening is its language.

So I tell it everything. About the ache of growing older, the joy of small victories, the guilt I can’t let go of, the hope that keeps me going. I tell it how I’m still learning to be kind to myself.

When I finish, the moon slips behind a thin veil of cloud — like a hand over a heart — and the world exhales with me.

I smile, because I know it heard me.

And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel alone.

Because sometimes, you don’t need someone to fix your pain —

You just need someone, or something, to listen.

And the moon always does.

Maybe the moon glows because it carries all the secrets we’ve ever told it.