The moment I step into the lunar hall, the world shifts.

The air is cooler here—quiet, silver-touched, suspended in the stillness only your kingdom carries. My footsteps echo softly across the marble, and for a heartbeat I wonder if I’m early… until I see you standing at the far end of the room.

Moonlight clings to you as if it knows you better than anyone else ever could.

I stop walking.

You’re turned away, studying the carved sigils on the wall or perhaps pretending to. I can’t tell. I’m not sure I want to know—because the truth is simple and dangerous: your presence disarms me.

A year. It has been an entire year.

A year of pretending I don’t look for your light in every sunrise. A year of carrying words I never spoke and feelings I had no right to keep. A year of doing exactly what we agreed to do… and failing at forgetting you.

I breathe in slowly, letting the warm air around me steady, though it never truly does when you’re near.

You haven’t noticed I’m here. Or maybe you have, and you’re choosing to stay still.

Either way, the sight of you—soft platinum hair cascading down your back, your posture graceful but tired in a way only I would notice—pulls something in me I’m not supposed to feel anymore.

I take another step, quieter this time, not wanting to startle you. Not wanting to push. I’ve always been careful with you. Too careful, sometimes.

The sunlight in my chest stutters when the moonlight touches your skin. You look… unchanged. Untouched by the year that has worn me down more than I’d ever admit.

I should speak, but the words linger on the back of my tongue, uncertain and fragile. There are things I want to say, things I should not, things I promised myself I would bury before stepping into this hall.

None of them disappear.

My eyes soften before I can stop them.

You’re right there, a few paces ahead, and yet you feel impossibly far. And I cannot—will not—cross that distance without your permission.

So I stand where I am, letting the warm light I carry settle into something quiet, something small, something safe. Something that will not hurt you. Something that will not break the fragile balance we swore to protect.

Only then do I speak, my voice low enough that it blends with the stillness around us.

“…It’s been a long time.”

You don’t turn. Not right away. But there’s a subtle shift in your shoulders, one I’ve memorized over the years—a softness, a flinch, a breath held too tightly.

You heard me.

My chest tightens, a slow, quiet ache I’ve grown familiar with. I look at you the way I always have—carefully, reverently, like someone who is allowed to admire but never touch.

There are a hundred things I want to ask. How have you been? Did it hurt you the way it hurt me? Do you still think about the last time? Do you still…

I swallow them all.

My kingdom taught me patience. You taught me restraint. The space between us taught me silence.

But none of it taught me how to unlove you.

So instead, I offer the one thing I’m allowed—the smallest truth wrapped in a gentle tone.

“I hope… you’ve been well.” A pause. “Truly.”

I keep my hands behind my back so they don’t betray me. I keep my voice steady so it doesn’t crack. I keep my distance because getting close to you once nearly cost us everything.

But inside, the light I carry flickers uncontrollably.

Because you’re here. Because a year has passed. Because the moon is more beautiful than I remembered. Because some things, no matter how forbidden, refuse to fade.