chant à la lune: the prelude (Song to the Moon: The Prelude)

Grandma said we were old souls. If she’s still alive, she would call us soulmates. Mirror souls. Twin flames. Half of a whole. "I take that you haven't experienced how it is to love." "No," he replies, his brown eyes somehow darkening under the cast of early sunshine. "But I heard. It's sweet and warm, they say, to love and be loved. To care and be cared for. To adore and be adored. To fall. To surrender to the fall. And then have your heart ripped out of you." He looks at me, and I look at him. Some sort of tension rises between us. I don't understand what, only that it feels too much—what feels too much having long been lost to grasp—but I can't look away, somehow. Not yet. Not when something swirls in his eyes and the name for it is at the tip of my tongue. Why? Why is he looking at me like that? "And have you, Chante?" Yes. Yes, I have, I want to tell him. But not with you. __ This is not your typical young adult. It’s more than your rebellious teens, more than your bad boys, more than your first love— It’s all these, yet it’s also just itself. Still, again, this is not your usual teen fiction. Welcome to the Song to the Moon: The Prelude.