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"O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable."-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Confronted with her own thoughts that bother her when she's alone, she found herself looking at some things in ways she never thought she would.

But tonight the normally playful and ever-present moonbeam wasn't there. She knew he was there somewhere, but she didn't feel him. Perhaps he was hiding behind the clouds? Perhaps. It pained her to think that he was apparently unaffected by how much she had come to rely on his brilliance. She wished it didn't matter, she wished she didn't need his reassuring presence, and she wondered why she still cared. But she did, it did, she did. If she didn't love him, would he know? Would he even care?
An awful, illogical thought emerged. What if he was purposely hiding behind the clouds, laughing at her misery? Gloating in his total mastery of her sky? Was there anything to get him off his fucking throne?

Comfortable as she tried to tell herself she was (and perhaps as the moon was), her wishes of being just a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, and a little less needy still left a bittersweet taste on her tongue and in her heart.
All she knew was she was missing the moon terribly tonight, there was no denying that. But for the first time -- and it didn't matter if the changes perceived were real or imagined -- she couldn't for the life of her tell whether the hurtful hate tormenting her outweighed the love.