Short Story: Luna’s Lament

Luna often felt like her home didn’t have enough space for her feelings. Her room was small, tucked in the corner of the house, and even when she closed the door, it felt like the walls were closing in on her.

Her mother’s words echoed constantly in her mind: “Take care of yourself.” But Luna didn’t understand how to do that. How could she take care of herself when everyone else needed so much? Her father always called for her to bring him tea, help him with his work, or sit with him in silence so he wouldn’t be alone. Luna always said yes. She loved him, after all.

And then there was Mia, her little sister. Luna barely remembered a time before Mia arrived, when her mother’s attention wasn’t consumed by crying, feeding, or soothing Mia’s constant needs. Luna had been tasked with caring for Mia from the very beginning. Every time her mother said, “Take care of your sister,” Luna’s chest tightened. She loved Mia, but the unspoken question remained, pressing against her heart: Who is taking care of me?

One day, after a long stretch of helping her father and tending to Mia’s endless demands, Luna felt something deep and heavy within her—a longing she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t sadness. It was a quiet ache, a yearning for space to breathe, to feel, to exist without being needed by someone else.

Without saying a word, Luna slipped out the back door and into the forest. She didn’t need permission. She just needed to go. The forest always welcomed her, its trees standing tall and unyielding, offering her shade, silence, and a kind of companionship she didn’t find at home.

As she wandered deeper, the weight in her chest began to lift. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the ground in dappled patterns of gold and green. The air smelled fresh, alive with the earthy scent of pine and damp soil.

Luna found a small clearing where the sunlight fell in bright patches on the ground. She stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, feeling the cool breeze on her skin. This was her place. Her sanctuary.

Her gaze fell to the forest floor, and an idea sparked in her mind. She would build a kite. Something that could fly, something light and free, something that belonged only to her.

She began to search for twigs, kneeling in the dirt to inspect each one she found. She ran her fingers over their surfaces, feeling the ridges and textures. “Hmm,” she murmured to herself, holding up a thicker branch. “This one is too heavy.” She picked up another, smaller twig and gave it a gentle bend. “This one is too weak.”

Finally, she found a twig that felt just right—light yet sturdy, with a natural curve that seemed to invite her touch. She looked up at the tree it had fallen from, her heart swelling with gratitude.

“Thank you, tree,” she whispered, holding the twig close to her chest.

As she continued gathering materials, something caught her eye—a plastic bag floating in the breeze, its movements light and carefree. She followed it, her steps quick but careful, until it snagged on a bush. She reached out and smoothed its crinkled surface, noticing the words “Thank You” printed in bold red letters, the kind you’d find on a takeout bag.

“Thank you,” she echoed softly, as if the bag itself had gifted her its presence.

But she still needed string. She paused, trying to think of where she might find some. The thought of her nanay’s sewing box popped into her mind—a blue tin that once held British cookies but now stored spools of thread and needles.

Her stomach clenched at the thought of going back home. Home, where she felt small and invisible but always needed. She stood still for a moment, the forest around her humming with quiet encouragement. She took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. The pain is worth the gain, she told herself.

With determined steps, she made her way back to the house.

The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open, her heart thudding in her chest. Her father was asleep on the couch, his arms crossed and the television murmuring softly in the background. She spotted the sewing box sitting on the coffee table, like a beacon of light in the dim room.

Tiptoeing across the floor, she moved as quietly as she could. Her fingers closed around the sewing box, and she held her breath as she turned to leave. The hinges groaned as she opened the door, but her father didn’t stir. She slipped outside, clutching the box tightly, and ran back into the forest, the tension in her chest easing with every step.

“Phew,” she sighed when she reached the clearing. She set the box down carefully, her hands trembling with relief. “I have everything I need now.”

Luna worked methodically, her movements full of care and intention. She tied the twigs together with the thread, forming a sturdy cross. She smoothed the plastic bag over the frame, its translucent surface catching the sunlight. From the forest floor, she gathered bright yellow leaves, each one a vivid fan of color.

She paused before picking each leaf, holding it in her hands and marveling at its beauty. “Thank you, tree,” she said softly as she added the leaves to her kite.

Finally, she fastened an acorn to the end of the string to create a handle. She held her breath as she took a step back to admire her work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers—a creation born from the earth and her own two hands.

She ran through the clearing, the kite trailing behind her. The wind tugged at it, but it didn’t lift. Luna didn’t mind. She held it close, feeling the smoothness of the twigs, the crinkle of the plastic, the cool weight of the acorn in her hand.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and indigo, Luna sat on a tree stump, her kite resting in her lap. She felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of peace.

That night, back in her small room, she lay in bed beneath the window. The moon’s silvery light streamed through the blinds, casting patterns on the walls. Luna pressed her hand to the rough drywall, imagining she could touch the moonlight itself.

“I want to feel you,” she whispered.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Luna drifted into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

That night, in her dream, Luna found herself in a white, infinite space. It felt peaceful yet vast, as if the world had expanded just for her. She looked up and saw light filtering through translucent green leaves above her—the most marvelous shade of green she had ever seen. The sunlight danced across her skin as if it were alive, wrapping her in warmth and wonder.

Beneath her, the ground was soft and cool. She noticed she was resting against a large tree stump, its surface weathered with deep lines and grooves that told stories she couldn’t yet understand.

“So much story,” she murmured, tracing her fingers along the textures of the wood. The lines felt like rivers flowing beneath her hands, connecting her to something ancient and wise.

She wanted to know this tree, to hear its stories. She pressed her palm against its surface and listened. For a moment, she thought she could feel its heartbeat, steady and strong, grounding her in the vastness of the dream.

But then, out of nowhere, her body tightened with a sharp, instinctive fear. She turned, and there he was—her father, standing in the endless white space, holding a gun.

Luna froze, her breath caught in her throat. A loud crack echoed through the emptiness, and pain blossomed in her left palm. She stared down at her hand, unable to move, unable to believe what she was seeing. A bullet was lodged there, small and dark against the crimson of her blood.

The shock held her still until a wave of determination surged through her. She took her right hand and dug into the wound, her fingers searching, burrowing deep. She felt the wet warmth of her blood, the sharp sting of pain, the solid resistance of her bones. She couldn’t tell if she was hurting herself or healing herself, but she couldn’t stop.

I need to know, she thought. I need to feel it all.

Her heart pulsed in a rhythm of contraction and expansion, the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide. The memory of gathering twigs for her kite flashed in her mind—the same feeling of intent and focus, now replaced by a raw, desperate need to reclaim herself.

Finally, her fingers closed around something solid. She pulled it free, and the bullet fell away. For a moment, there was only silence.

She woke with a start, the beeping of a heart monitor pulling her back to consciousness.

The room was stark and white, the sheets beneath her crisp and cool. She blinked, disoriented, her gaze drifting to the IV in her left arm. She flexed her fingers, the memory of the dream still vivid in her mind.

Sunlight seeped through the window blinds, painting the room with thin golden lines. And then she saw them—the dust particles, floating lazily in the light. They swirled and twirled, weightless and free, their movements gentle and unhurried.

For a long moment, Luna just watched them, mesmerized. Each speck caught the sunlight, shimmering with a quiet beauty. They didn’t seem to have a purpose, no destination to reach, yet they moved with such grace.

A thought rose unbidden in her mind: Even in stillness, there is movement. Even in pain, there is beauty.

Slowly, she lifted her hand, watching as the particles swirled around her fingers. She felt a smile tug at her lips, soft and genuine. The dust seemed to dance just for her, as if it was showing her something important.

Even when I’m sad, I can move. I can choose.

She brushed her cheek against the light, feeling its warmth and the gentle tickle of the dust. It was as if the universe itself was whispering to her, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. She was connected—to the sunlight, to the air, to the world around her.

Her fingers traced the air, and she marveled at how something so small, so seemingly insignificant, could hold so much beauty.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the particles, to the light, to the moment itself.

That night, as she lay in the hospital bed, Luna felt something shift within her. The heaviness she had carried for so long didn’t disappear, but it felt lighter, as if it no longer had to define her.

She dreamed of the forest again, of the tree that had given her twigs for her kite, of the leaves that had painted her world with color. She dreamed of her kite, not soaring but beautiful in its stillness.

And when she woke, she knew this: the elements of the world—light, air, earth, and even the spaces in between—had become her teachers. They had shown her how to feel, how to be, even in the face of pain.

Luna didn’t know what lay ahead, but she no longer felt alone. She had the forest, the sunlight, the dust, and herself. And that was enough for now.

🌙 A Ritual Poem for the Girl’s That Carry Too Much

To the girl with the small room,
whose hands were always full,
whose heart was always waiting—

I see you now.
Not just as the child who endured,
but as the one who began the story.

You were never too much.
Your longing for space,
for softness,
for someone to ask you how you feel—
was not a burden.
It was the voice of truth
rising from your bones.

I know how tired you were.
How hard you tried to earn love
by becoming useful, silent, small.
I know the ache of holding
a family’s weight
before your body had learned
how to rest.

But listen:
you were not wrong to leave.
The forest was not an escape—
it was a return.
To your breath.
To your body.
To the quiet knowing of the earth.

You built something sacred
with your hands.
A kite that didn’t need to fly
to be beautiful.

You chose beauty.
You chose yourself.

And the bullet—
yes, I remember.
The pain.
The fear.
The act of pulling it out
with trembling hands.

That was not weakness.
That was initiation.

You are not defined
by what he did.
You are not frozen
in that moment.

You moved.
You chose.
You became.

And now,
I carry your story with me
like a lantern.
I walk beside the girl you were
and the woman you’re becoming.

Thank you
for surviving.
Thank you
for dreaming.
Thank you
for saying yes
to your own life.

The light loves you.
The wind carries you.
And I will never
leave you behind.

—Luna