There are nights I feel only the moon understands me. It watches silently as I grapple with a grief so profound, it aches in the quietest, loneliest hours. My brother is gone, and in his absence, memories flood in, relentless waves of joy and sorrow. He was beautiful—not just in looks but in spirit. His smile was bright enough to fill a room, his laughter the kind that lingered long after he’d left. I was always "the other one," the awkward, shy sister trailing behind his golden light. I grew comfortable with that role. I never expected to outlive him.
In his absence, the air feels colder, emptier, though the moon is constant, hanging above me like a quiet witness. Sometimes, I talk to it, telling stories of my brother, reminding it of the laughter we shared. It feels absurd, yet somehow comforting, like he’s listening through its steady glow. Each memory is a reminder of how much I miss him, and yet each one is tinged with an unbearable sadness—the moments I took for granted, the warmth he brought to the smallest things.
I grapple with being the one left behind. He was beautiful, loved by so many, while I was just the “ugly” sister, shadowed by his radiance. Now, without him, I feel like a shadow without substance, living in the hollow he left behind.
Yet, there’s an odd resilience in this solitude. I find myself talking to the moon, breathing through the grief. It’s an ache I live with now, one that reminds me of the beauty he brought into this world. And as I sit under the moon’s watchful eye, I know I’ll carry him with me, forever—the imperfect sister to a perfect brother, a flicker in his lingering glow.
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