A Boy & His Imaginary Girl

That evening, Ethan returned home feeling lighter than he had in years. The walk with Luna had been... surreal, yet grounding. He wasn't sure what it meant, or why Luna had appeared in his life, but her presence was undeniably comforting.

The sky outside had turned a dusky purple, the first stars beginning to dot the horizon. Ethan closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, his eyes drifting to Luna, who was perched on his bed. She had kicked off her shimmering shoes and was examining her toes, a small, amused smile on her face.

"Do feet always feel this weird?" she asked, flexing them experimentally.

Ethan snorted despite himself, setting his backpack down by his desk. "You're asking me? You're the one who just appeared out of nowhere."

Luna grinned, sitting up. "Fair point." Her gaze shifted to his desk, where a stack of sketchbooks lay in a messy pile. "Can I look at those?"

Ethan's stomach twisted. He followed her gaze, his instinct to refuse bubbling up immediately. Those sketchbooks were private, filled with drawings he'd never shown anyone. They weren't just art—they were pieces of himself, raw and unfiltered.

"I don't know…" he started, hesitating.

Luna tilted her head, her expression softening. "I promise I'll be careful," she said gently. "I just want to see what you've created. It's a part of you, isn't it?"

Her words disarmed him. With a reluctant sigh, Ethan picked up the top sketchbook and handed it to her. "Fine. But don't laugh."

"Why would I laugh?" Luna asked, her tone genuinely surprised.

She opened the sketchbook with careful hands, her eyes widening as she flipped through the pages. Each drawing seemed to capture her attention fully, as though she were studying not just the lines and shading but the emotion behind them.

"These are amazing," she murmured, tracing a finger over a sketch of a dragon perched on a cliffside. "You have so much imagination."

Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride. "They're just... things I think about. Stuff that doesn't exist."

"But they do exist," Luna said, looking up at him. "You've made them real in your own way. That's incredible."

She turned another page and stopped, her gaze softening. It was a sketch of a boy sitting alone under a tree, his face obscured but his posture heavy with loneliness. The branches above him stretched like skeletal fingers, stark against the empty sky.

"This one," Luna said softly, glancing at Ethan. "It feels... different."

Ethan hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "It's just... how I feel sometimes," he admitted finally. "Like I'm alone in the middle of everything."

Luna closed the sketchbook carefully and set it aside. "You don't have to be alone, you know," she said.

Ethan sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "It's not that simple," he muttered. "People don't... they don't get me. And I'm not good at explaining myself. It's easier to just stay out of the way."

Luna studied him for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. Then she reached out and took his hand, her touch warm and grounding.

"You don't have to explain yourself to everyone," she said gently. "But you don't have to hide, either. There are people out there who will understand, Ethan. You just have to give them a chance."

Ethan looked at her, his chest tightening. Her words made sense, but they also terrified him. The thought of opening himself up to others felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

"I don't know if I can do that," he said quietly.

Luna smiled, her grip on his hand steady. "That's okay. You don't have to do it all at once. But you can start small. Like you did today."

Ethan thought back to their walk, the way the world had seemed a little less daunting with Luna by his side. Maybe she was right. Maybe he could take it one step at a time.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the only sound the faint patter of rain against the window. Luna leaned back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling with a contented sigh.

"Your art," she said after a while, "it's like a window into your soul. You should share it with the world."

Ethan blinked at her, startled. "What? No way."

"Why not?" Luna asked, propping herself up on her elbows. "People would love it. It's full of heart, and it's so creative. Don't you want others to see what you can do?"

"It's not that simple," Ethan said, his voice defensive. "Putting my art out there—it's like showing people a piece of me. What if they hate it?"

Luna shook her head, her expression earnest. "Not everyone will love it, sure. But the ones who do—they'll see you, Ethan. The real you. Isn't that worth the risk?"

Ethan didn't reply. The idea of sharing his sketches, of opening himself up to judgment, felt impossible. But Luna's words lingered, planting a small, stubborn seed of doubt in his certainty.

As the evening stretched on, Luna flipped through more of his sketchbooks, laughing and marveling at his creations. Ethan found himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing as her praise warmed him.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—Luna was right.

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To Be Continued..