The Moon Sees You

Chapter Eight: When the Stars Forget

Eliot couldn’t shake the image of the double exposure — Noé, standing so close yet so far, like a ghost who could never quite touch the earth. It haunted him in every waking moment, and every night he waited, hoping that this time, he would catch Noé in a frame that was as real as his heart felt. But with each passing day, the world seemed to stretch further away from him, as if he were sinking deeper into a dream that no longer wanted to let him go.

When the next dream came, it was different. The air was heavier, charged with an energy that felt like something was about to change. Eliot stood once again at the edge of the moonlit river, but the water was no longer still. The river pulsed with light, like veins of starlight coursing through the earth, shimmering in a dance of quiet radiance. It felt like the world itself was breathing, alive in a way Eliot could almost touch.

And there, waiting for him as always, was Noé.

His silver hair shimmered in the pale light, his eyes dark and endless as the night sky. But tonight, something was different about him — his presence was quieter, more fragile. It was as if he were fading in the very air around them.

Eliot’s heart caught in his throat. “Noé?”

The boy turned to face him, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Noé’s gaze was full of something Eliot couldn’t place — a mixture of longing and sorrow, of love and inevitable loss.

“Eliot,” Noé whispered, his voice a soft caress, the words slipping between them like a secret. “There is something I need to give you.”

Eliot stepped closer, a sense of urgency in his chest. “What is it?”

Noé smiled, though it was bittersweet. His hands moved gently through the air, as if pulling something from the very fabric of the dream. Slowly, he extended his arm, and in his palm appeared a delicate flower. Its petals were soft and white, glowing faintly with the light of the moon. The flower was beautiful, almost ethereal, with a silvery sheen that reflected the stars above.

Eliot’s breath caught in his throat as he reached out for it. “It’s... beautiful.”

Noé’s expression softened, his gaze distant. “It is a moonflower,” he explained. “It only blooms at night, and with the dawn, it wilts and dies.”

Eliot’s fingers trembled as he gently accepted the flower, its cool petals brushing against his skin. It was warm, yet somehow fragile — like the very moment they shared.

“Noé,” Eliot whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Why are you giving me this?”

Noé’s eyes met his, and for a brief moment, there was no distance between them. No dream, no boundary. Just two souls standing in the quiet glow of the moonlight.

“Because this is what we are,” Noé replied softly. “A fleeting moment, a love that blooms only in the dark. It’s the only thing I can give you — something to remember me by, when the stars forget.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Eliot felt a pain in his chest — a mix of gratitude and grief, the bitter sweetness of something so precious that it could never last.

“You can’t disappear,” Eliot said, his voice desperate. “I can’t lose you.”

Noé reached out, cupping Eliot’s cheek in his cold hands. “You won’t lose me. But you will have to let me go, eventually. Even moonflowers can’t bloom forever.”

Eliot closed his eyes, the soft touch of Noé’s hand on his skin grounding him in the moment. He wanted to say so many things — wanted to make promises, wanted to beg Noé to stay, to find a way to make him real. But the words caught in his throat, tangled in the knot of love and longing.

“Will you still come to me?” Eliot asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Even when the world wakes up?”

Noé smiled faintly, the expression both full of love and sorrow. “I will always come to you, Eliot. But I am bound by the dream, and the dream is a fragile thing. It will fade with the first light of day.”

And as Noé spoke those words, the moonflower in Eliot’s hand began to glow even brighter, its petals unfurling in the light of the dream. It was beautiful — so delicate, so perfect — but Eliot knew what Noé had said was true. The flower would only live for as long as the night, and when the morning came, it would wither and die.

But for now, it was real. Noé was real.

Eliot stared at the flower, his fingers wrapped around its stem. “What if I can’t let go?” he asked softly, the question lingering between them.

Noé’s gaze softened. “You will. You have to. The only way I can stay is if you can learn to let go, to accept that our love exists only in this space. It cannot belong to the waking world.”

The world around them began to shift, the stars flickering like candle flames in the breeze. Noé’s form started to fade, his edges blurring as if he were slipping through Eliot’s fingers, like stardust caught in the wind.

“You’ll be okay,” Noé said, his voice fading with the light. “You’ll remember me. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Eliot’s heart ached as Noé’s form dissolved completely, leaving only the soft glow of the moonflower in his hands. He held it tightly, unwilling to let go of the only piece of Noé he had ever been given.

Eliot woke with the soft, delicate flower pressed to his chest, its petals still warm against his skin. The light of the morning streamed through the window, casting long shadows across his room, and with it came the inevitable sense of loss.

He lifted the moonflower carefully, studying it in the daylight. Its petals were already starting to curl, its glow dimming as the sun rose higher. He had only a few hours before it would die completely — before it would be gone forever, just like Noé.

And yet, he held onto it. Not because he thought he could stop the inevitable, but because in this fragile flower, in its fleeting beauty, he felt a part of Noé’s love. He could hold onto that — even if only for a little while.

The moonflower would die in the daylight, just like Noé would fade with the dawn. But for now, it lived, and so did their love.

And sometimes, that was enough.