My mother holds me close, her voice like a lullaby, soft and familiar. She whispers something tender as her comfortingly calloused fingers draw the curtains closed, in a slow, gentle pace. The perfume lingering on her pyjamas embraces me in a childhood blanket of love and vulnerability.

The dim room is bathed in the soft streetlight glow of the outside world, framed by a heavy-hanging moon. I gaze at its luminance indifferently. But, she points to it, her voice hushed with awe.

“The moon is so beautiful tonight,” she murmurs.

Suddenly, I find it enchanting. 

My eyelids shut. The weight of the world slips away as I drift into an apprehensive void of dreams, in the arms of my most beloved. 

When did it all change? 

Now, I stand before the mirror, scrutinising my reflection. My fingers press against my skin, tugging at the angry red blemish that seems to have colonised my entire face. Each imperfection, each stray hair, seems to rise to the surface, mocking me. Is this vanity? No, it’s something deeper—puberty, perhaps. Or maybe it’s simply the weight of growing up.

I step into the kingdom of horrors, teeming with hormone-driven animals. I wonder what each unfamiliar figure has to think of me. Eyes darting. Voices whispering. I’m conscious that everyone can not just see the puddle of raw red on my face but also the awkward bend of my growing limbs, the awkward tremble in my voice. Every glance feels heavy with judgement. 

At home, the silence between my parents and I stretches thin. The dinner table makes no noise but the scraping of knives against stubborn steak. Their words scrape against my ever-diminishing patience. Gnawing at my mood. Leaving me skinned with rage. 

Instead, I escape. Running towards the glow of my phone, the stream of curated lives that leaves me aching with envy like an immature child to ice cream they’ll never get. But I refuse to leave, I refuse to step out and face the boring reality of pointless papers and assignments. The familiar ping of a notification makes my heart flutter. Fake scenarios flood my mind but the fleeting joy soon fades into something hollow. 

My eyes sting with exhaustion. The blue light from my screen casts a cold, harsh light over the room, draining what little warmth remains. I glance towards the window, cracking the curtains just enough to peek out.

The moon hangs there, distant and unfamiliar. Something about it feels different—changed, as if it no longer holds the same beauty it once did.

Writer – Bianca Hu
Editor – Aaron Huang
Artist – Amelia Hu

–October 2024–