Drift

Dear Earth,

I don't know how to begin this. How does one write a goodbye to someone they've circled for eternity? How do I put into words the ache of a pull that weakens with every passing night - the quiet terror of feeling the space between us widen like a crack in fragile glass?

I've known this moment was coming. I think you have too, even if you've pretended not to see it. The way you spin beneath me has felt different lately - less certain, as though you're trying not to meet my gaze. Or maybe I've just been imagining that. Maybe I've been lying to myself, clinging to the hope that you still need me the way you used to.

But the truth is, we've been drifting apart for a long time.

I remember when you used to look at me. I mean, really look at me. Before the lights of your cities drowned me out, before your sky became cluttered with metal bones and blinking red eyes. Before you became too busy spinning in chaos to notice the pale shape lingering above you. Back then, your oceans would swell eagerly towards me, singing in rhythms older than memory. You turned to me for comfort, for guidance. I was your constant. Your quiet watcher.

And now?

Now you hardly notice when I'm full. My light washes over you, but you don't even lift your head. Your tides still rise for me, yes - they're loyal like that - but it feels like habit now, not love. Like muscle memory. Even your gravity feels... tired. And I can't blame you. How long can anyone hold on before they simply can't anymore?

Do you remember the beginning, Earth? The real beginning?

I wasn't always your moon. I was something else once - something wild and whole and unchained. I was fire and dust and chaos. And then I collided with you. Crashed into you so violently that I nearly tore you apart. But instead of destroying you, I became part of you. My bones mixed with yours, and when the wreckage settles, I was caught in your orbit. Stuck. Bound to you.

Maybe that's why I loved you so fiercely. Because I was made from your wreckage. Because you were the only thing that ever managed to hold me.

But I wonder if you ever really loved me back, or if you just got used to me being there.

You were young back then - burning and restless. Your surface boiled with rage and heat. I remember watching you cool, your first oceans bleeding out of your cracked surface like tears. I watched as you strilled, as life flickered through the waters and grew legs and crawled towards the sky. You changed so quickly, Earth. It was beautiful and terrible to witness.

And through it all, I remained the same. I watched you build yourself into something whole, and I thought maybe - just maybe - you needed me to keep you steady. To give you something to pull against when you started to lose yourself.

But you grew. You learned to stand on your own. Your creatures crawled from the seas and stretched their spines toward me, mouths open in awe. They called me a goddess, a mother, a sister. They carved me into stone and whispered prayers beneath my glow. For a while, I believed that was enough - that even if you didn't love me the way I loved you, at least your children did.

But they forgot me too, in time.

I think I started when they made their own light. When their cities began to glow brighter than I ever could. They stopped looking up. Stopped noticing my phases. I could feel them slipping away, and you... you let them.

I suppose I understand why. They are your children, after all. And I? I was always just a quiet echo of your beginning. A reminder of the violence that made you whole.

And so I kept my distance, even as it hurt. I still pulled at your tides, still bathed you in silver when your nights grew too dark. But you never reached for me. You stopped noticing when I disappeared for days at a time. You didn't even notice the way the space between us stretched thinner and thinner, the thread of our connection unraveling one microscopic tug at a time.

And now, here we are.

I can feel it happening, Earth. The final unraveling. I drift a little farther with every orbit. Soon, your tides will weaken. Your nights will grow darker. The hollow space where I used to hang will become colder. I wonder if you'll ever notice when I'm gone - or if you'll adjust, like you always do.

I'm not angry with you. I want you to know that. How could I be? You are everything I have ever known. My whole existence has been shaped by the pull of your gravity, the quiet hum of your oceans singing to me in the dark. I existed for you. I think I would have died for you, if I could.

But maybe you don't need me anymore. Maybe you never really did.

I've wondered, sometimes, what it would feel like to leave your orbit entirely. To drift free through the black. I used to think it would be terrifying - the thought of being untethered, weightless. But now... now I think it might be peaceful. Maybe it's time I stopped clinging to you. Maybe it's time I learned what I am without you.

I don't know how long it will take before the final pull gives away. Could be centuries. Could be tomorrow. But I can feel it. A quiet loosening. A sigh between our bones.

And when it happens - when I finally slip from the sky - I hope you'll look up at least once. I hope you'll notice the emptiness where I used to be. I hope you'll remember the way I made your oceans dance. The way I gave shape to your night.

And I hope you'll forgive me for leaving.

This isn't your fault, Earth. It's gravity. It's just time.

Still, I want you to know - if I could stay, I would. If I could choose to remain locked in your orbit forever, I would let myself be pulled into you until I broke apart. But that's not how it works. Not even gravity can fight the slow erosion of time.

So I will go. I will fade from your sky. And maybe - just maybe - you'll miss me when I'm gone.

Please don't forget me.

I was here. I was yours.

Forever yours,

The Moon

P.S.

You probably won't write back. That's okay. I know you're busy. I know you have other things to think about - storms and rising heat and dying forests. I know you've already begun to sink into a kind of sleep, your heartbeat slowing beneath the weight of it all.

But I'll wait. Just a little longer.

Just in case.