I jolt up in my bed with the screams still ringing in my ears and the pain fresh in my mind. I look around my bedroom, making sure all was in its place and not in a patch of roses turned chaos. While doing so, I am frantically repeating to myself, “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” and staring at my wrist to check and see if my scars are hurting.

  The one on my wrist is throbbing which didn’t make sense, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. It always hurts whenever I have these sort of dreams. This isn’t the first time I have dreamed of this girl, Adleremse. Or of the boy either. Both look strangely familiar, yet I can not place them.

  Once I had calmed down enough to not be considered “hyperventilating”, I glance over at my clock. 3:03 in the morning. It is very early which explained why it is still dark out and the moon’s white, crater-filled surface seems to call out to me. Seeing that I am not going back to sleep, I grab my faded red sweatshirt with a logo that has seen better days and my black converse from my closet.

  After putting each article on, I climb out of my window and onto the flat roof outside to escape the remanence of my dreams and observe the moon. It is at the stage of a waxing crescent, which means it is on its way to a full moon. Even though most do not understand my obsession with “the rock in the sky”, I have always admired the moon’s beauty, ever since I could remember.

  In the fifth grade, I remember creating a model of the moon and its effect on earth’s oceans. It didn’t get first though, apparently it seemed dull compared to the solar battery on the latest iphone. I guess the people of Logan, Utah don’t care about the moon in 2020. I seem to be one of the only citizens in a town, where such diverse people reside, who is actually interested in the one thing that orbits around the earth.

  That’s why I’m an outcast. I’m not into the hoverboards that seem to combust at will, the headsets of deceit that makes the coding of games so lifelike, or the ongoing iphones that have taken over the planet. I’m more of the “nature” kid compared to some at my high school.

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  I love the quiet whispers of nature from the swaying willow tree that’s lived at my house for as long as I can remember. I love the conversations crickets have under the moonlit sky, the harmonious chirps that can cover the sound of silent tears. I love how a blade of grass, so vibrant, so full of life, can be trodden down by many a creature and still get back up. Can still stand tall even when it’s severed by the sharp, degrading voice of the lawn mower, how it always comes back. I wish I was like that blade of grass.

  But, since almost nobody likes this stuff anymore except me, I’m considered the outcast, loser, odd one out. The only one I can turn to is the moon. She never looks at me like I don’t belong. I almost think that she appreciates me talking or gazing at her when I can’t sleep at night. I know, I’ll consider myself crazy, but I will do anything to just get away and be with the moon.

  I mean, science believes that we have explored everything about the moon. It believes that the moon is just a rock and there’s no mystery to it. But I think they’re wrong. I believe that science overlooked the greatest object in space and have had the public label it simply as the rock in the sky.

  Maybe my parents took it upon themselves to curse their only child to be known as the carrier of the name of the forgotten stone, Riley Luna Stanton. But, whatever. I love the moon, and the moon appears to be my only friend.

  Even though I’m a social freak and a nerdy sixteen-year-old girl who is extremely interested in the moon, that doesn’t explain my dreams. Or my scars for that matter. The moon on my shoulder is why my parents gave me the middle name Luna, but the star on my wrist is a mystery to us all. Whenever I have these dreams of the boy who controls the stars and Adleremse, it burns like crazy. But nobody believes me anymore. Nobody cares.

  My parents try, but after eight years of non-stop dreams and “so-called” pain in my wrist, they don’t. The doctors think that this pain is not real and is just a way for me to “express myself, because I am a very lonely child who wants attention.” Give me a break. Is that what I am? The crazy child who just wants attention, so she screams at night and is sobbing uncontrollably because her wrist hurts so bad? I don’t think so.

  That’s why I keep it to myself. Nobody needs to know my pain because nobody cares. Only the moon cares, and that’s how it’s been for a long, long time.