The Loneliness of the Moon

I haven’t seen her in days. I can still smell her in the woods, but the scent is faint now, like a memory fading into smoke. I know she left something behind, though; they always do. Humans shed pieces of themselves all over the world, oblivious to the way those pieces stick to the earth, to trees, to air. They never think about how we — creatures like me — can track them. Every discarded skin cell, every stray hair is a breadcrumb, a map to their soft, fleeting lives.

Her scent leads me to the river, and I linger there longer than I should, watching the water swirl dark and swift under the thick canopy. The moon hangs just above the treeline, not quite full, but near enough that I can feel it in my bones. The pull, the hunger, the knowing.

I don’t hunt during the day. It’s not because I can’t — there’s something primal in me that could if I let it — but I choose not to. It feels... wrong. Daylight is for humans, for their fumbling and laughing, their joy and sorrow. I don’t belong in it. I belong to the night, to the hours when shadows melt into one another and the forest becomes a sanctuary. I hunt when the moon rises, because it’s the only time I feel whole.

But I haven't hunted her. Not yet.

She came to the cabin at the edge of the woods three weeks ago, all the way from some city I can’t remember the name of. I heard her before I saw her, long before. The snap of a twig under a boot, the low hum of a car engine cutting through the quiet. I knew she’d find her way to me eventually. They always do, the ones running from something, seeking a place to hide. The cabin looks abandoned, forgotten by time, but it’s not. It’s mine.

I didn’t show myself at first, content to watch from the treeline. She unpacked her bags slowly, every movement deliberate, as if she were afraid of being noticed. I saw the haunted look in her eyes, that certain emptiness people carry when they’ve lost something important. It’s a look I know well.

For the first few days, she stayed close to the cabin, only venturing out to gather wood or sit by the water’s edge. I would catch glimpses of her at dusk, her silhouette framed by the dying light. There was something in her face, something I couldn’t quite name but felt drawn to all the same.

She didn’t know what I was, of course. She probably thought of me as nothing more than a phantom, a shadow lurking in the corner of her vision. Maybe she even thought I was the ghost of the cabin’s previous owner, some tragic soul tethered to the land. People always try to make sense of things they can’t understand.

It’s not the same, though — being a ghost, being a werewolf. A ghost is untouchable, a memory trapped in a loop. I am flesh, blood, muscle. My skin is only a temporary prison, a fragile thing that can barely contain what’s inside me. When the moon swells, when the change comes, it’s like shedding a mask, revealing the truth underneath.

I’m not human. I was once, but that part of me is long gone. Lost to the curse, or gift, depending on who you ask.

I don’t remember much about who I was before. Only flashes. The warmth of sunlight on my face, the way grass felt under my feet, the smell of bread baking in a kitchen. But those things are distant now, like echoes in a cave. They mean nothing to me anymore. What does it matter? The moon is my only constant.

It’s different for her. I can see the struggle in her every movement, the weight she carries on her shoulders. She’s afraid of something, something bigger than the woods, bigger than the quiet isolation she sought. I’ve seen her staring at the moon when it rises, her face a mix of awe and terror, like she knows what’s coming but can’t stop it.

She can’t stop me either. No one can.

The night she saw me for the first time, I thought she’d run. It was the night after the full moon, and I was careless, too hungry to be cautious. I was stalking through the trees, my body half-shifted, my senses clouded with the thrill of the hunt. When I heard the crackle of leaves, I turned, and there she was, standing a few feet away, her breath shallow and fast, her eyes wide.

I waited for her to scream, to bolt back to the safety of her cabin, but she didn’t. She just stood there, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven bursts. There was no fear in her gaze, though — only recognition. As if some part of her had known all along.

She didn’t speak. Neither did I. What would I have said? There are no words for what I am, no explanation that could ease the horror of it. I am a predator. She is prey. It’s a truth as old as time.

But she didn’t run.

Instead, she turned and walked back to the cabin, slow and deliberate, leaving me standing alone under the moonlight. I didn’t follow her. I couldn’t. Not that night. Something had changed in the air between us, something I couldn’t define but could feel in my marrow.

I’ve been watching her more closely since then. She’s left the cabin twice, wandering deeper into the forest, as if she’s looking for something. I don’t know what, but the way she moves is different now. She’s not afraid anymore, not in the way she was when she first arrived. There’s a calmness to her, a quiet acceptance.

I haven’t seen her in days, though. Her scent still lingers, faint but there. It’s in the trees, on the breeze, in the earth. She hasn’t gone far. Not yet. But I know she will, eventually.

Humans always leave. They seek shelter in the wilds, thinking they can outrun whatever it is that haunts them. But they can’t. The woods are indifferent. The moon is indifferent. The change will come for them, just as it came for me.

I wait at the river’s edge, listening to the water rushing over the rocks, the distant sound of wind through the trees. The moon is full tonight, heavy and glowing, and I can feel the shift already. My bones ache, my skin stretches. I know what’s coming, and I welcome it.

It’s not the hunger that drives me, though. Not this time.

This time, I want to see her. I want her to see me, truly see me. To understand what it means to live in the in-between, neither fully human nor fully beast. To live with the knowledge that every moment is fleeting, that the world will always move on without us.

She’ll leave soon. I can feel it. And when she does, I’ll be here, alone in the woods, the moon my only companion.

Because that’s what we are — creatures of the night, forever bound to the pull of the moon, to the loneliness of the wild.