The Moon Told Me to Stay

Last night,

I almost walked away

from the version of me that still believed.

I stared at the sky like it held answers

to questions my chest could no longer carry.

My hands trembled—

not from fear,

but from trying so hard to hold on

to things I was never meant to keep.

I stood alone

on the edge of something I couldn't name.

Not quite despair,

not quite rebirth—

just a silent middle ground

where your breath is thin

and your heart doesn't know which side of the war it’s on.

I wanted to vanish.

Not die—

just dissolve.

Like morning mist on sunlit windows,

like the echo of a song no one remembers singing,

like a secret the wind carries

but never tells the trees.

But the moon was watching.

That ancient witness

who’s seen the rise and ruin of millions like me

hung low in the sky,

golden and patient,

as if she knew I'd be there.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t move.

But I felt her—

like a hand on my shoulder

or a mother’s eyes that see too much.

She said nothing

and still, I heard her:

"Stay."

Not because the pain was over.

Not because the world suddenly made sense.

But because somewhere inside the wreckage,

there was still something worth saving.

A spark.

A voice.

A truth that hadn’t yet been sung.

I sat down in the grass,

bare feet touching the earth

like maybe I could be forgiven

for wanting to leave.

And in that silence,

I remembered all the versions of myself

who had gotten me this far—

The child who dreamed wildly,

the teenager who wrote poems in the dark,

the adult who lost,

who rebuilt,

who cried in cars

and still held doors open for strangers.

I remembered the promises I never said aloud:

to keep going,

to be kind to myself,

to make beauty out of bruises.

I wept.

Not from sadness,

but from recognition.

I had survived so much

and still kept soft places inside me.

That is no small thing.

That is grace.

The moon leaned closer,

and I swear the wind carried her voice:

"You are not here to be perfect.

You are here to be real.

To break.

To bloom.

To fall and rise again

like tides pulled by something greater than yourself."

I thought about all the things I haven’t done—

the words unsaid,

the love not yet discovered,

the cities I haven’t touched with my feet.

I thought about joy—

not the loud kind,

but the quiet joy of existing

without apology.

I thought about the people I haven’t met—

the ones who will understand me

without asking me to shrink,

who will see my pain

and not flinch,

who will love me gently

and remind me I was never meant to disappear.

I thought about the books I haven’t read,

the art I haven’t made,

the moments of peace that still wait for me

like unopened letters from the future.

And I thought,

maybe there’s something sacred

in simply staying.

In not running.

In choosing presence

over numbness.

So I stayed.

Not for them.

Not for the likes or the praise

or the validation that vanishes like smoke.

I stayed for the fire inside me

that refuses to be extinguished.

I stayed for the mornings I haven’t met yet—

the ones that smell like coffee

and clean air and forgiveness.

For the poems I haven’t written

and the hands I haven’t held

and the laughter that still waits in corners I haven’t turned.

I stayed for my own voice—

shaky but real,

soft but certain,

a voice that deserves to echo.

I stayed because I’m not finished.

Because even broken wings

can stir storms.

Because silence can be a hymn

and survival can be an act of rebellion.

I stayed

because somewhere,

someone like me is standing on their own edge—

looking at the same moon,

asking the same questions.

And maybe they’ll hear this echo.

Maybe my staying

becomes their staying too.

And maybe that

is how we save each other—

not with answers,

but with presence.

Not with perfection,

but with persistence.

One quiet decision

at a time.

One more breath.

One more day.

I stayed—

and that is enough.

By [Kevin]