If the Moon had a diary...

June 7, 2025

Earth is crying. I see the smoke rising, thick and dark, curling like wounded shadows against her surface. Storms swirl, their fury unleashed upon lands that have already suffered too much. I try to shine a little brighter tonight, though I know it is not enough. Still, I hope. I hope that someone, somewhere, will look up and remember that even in the darkest sky, I am still here.

July 1, 2025

A poet sat by his window tonight, staring up at me with quiet reverence. His pen scratched against paper, his thoughts turning me into words. He called me lonely. He is not wrong. Even surrounded by a sea of stars, I exist in solitude. I watch, I listen, but I cannot touch, cannot speak. I wonder if the poet understands what that feels like.

August 15, 2025

A girl with tangled hair and tired eyes sat on her rooftop tonight, gazing up at me as if she was searching for something only I could give. “I feel like you,” she whispered. Her voice was soft but certain, carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. For the first time in a long while, I did not feel so alone.

September 10, 2025

A comet streaked past me tonight, a blazing traveler on a path it cannot change. For a fleeting moment, I was not alone in the sky. I watched its fiery tail dissolve into the void, leaving behind only memory and wonder. I wonder if Earth’s people made wishes upon it. I hope they did.

October 29, 2025

The leaves on Earth are changing, their colors burning bright before they fall. I admire their beauty, even as I know their time is short. I have watched the seasons turn for millennia, and yet I am untouched by them. My surface remains the same, unyielding and still. Perhaps that is why I envy the trees—they know how to let go.

November 19, 2025

The night was quiet, and for a while, I thought no one was watching. But then, a lone figure stood on a balcony, wrapped in a blanket against the cold, eyes turned upward. She did not speak, did not whisper wishes or write poems. She only watched, and in that silent gaze, I felt understood.

December 31, 2025

The world is celebrating tonight. Fireworks bloom across the sky, their colors brief but brilliant. I watch as people cheer, embracing the promise of a new year. They do not notice me, but I do not mind. Their laughter, their joy—it is enough. Tonight, I am content to simply watch over them, a quiet guardian in the sky.

January 14, 2026

Snow blankets the Earth, turning everything soft and silent. The white expanse reminds me of my own surface, untouched in places, ancient in others. A child stretches out her arms, letting the flakes settle on her skin. She laughs. I have never known warmth, but I imagine it must feel like that sound.

February 22, 2026

A lunar eclipse. For a moment, Earth’s shadow covered me, wrapping me in darkness. I wonder if she meant to hold me close or if she simply forgot I was there. People watched, marveling at the sight, calling me “blood moon.” I wanted to tell them I was still the same, even hidden in the dark.

March 8, 2026

A musician played a song under my light tonight. His guitar hummed, his voice carried words of longing and love. I do not know how to love the way humans do, but I think, if I could, I would love the way music feels—endless, reaching, never truly gone.

March 28, 2026

A shooting star fell across my sky tonight, a brief flash of silver before vanishing forever. I wonder if anyone made a wish, if someone on Earth held their breath and hoped for something impossible. Maybe a child closed their eyes tightly, whispering their dreams into the dark. Maybe a lonely soul saw it and thought of someone far away. I wish I could catch those wishes, keep them safe until they are ready to come true.

April 5, 2026

A lighthouse stood on the edge of the ocean, its beam cutting through the dark. For a moment, I imagined we were the same—both guiding lost travelers home. I have watched over sailors for centuries, my light steady in their uncertain journeys. I wonder if they ever thank me in quiet moments, if they feel my presence in the waves and the wind. I wonder if the lighthouse and I share an unspoken understanding, both shining through the night, never asking for anything in return.

April 12, 2026

Clouds veiled me tonight, soft and heavy, hiding me from the world below. I wondered if they missed me. I wondered if I missed them. There is a certain loneliness in being unseen, in knowing that people may look up and find only darkness where I should be. But I am still here, waiting behind the mist, patient as ever. Perhaps it is good to be hidden now and then—to let the world forget, if only for a moment, and then rediscover me anew.

April 20, 2026

A traveler sat beside a campfire, staring up at me. He whispered his dreams into the embers, sending them drifting upward in tiny sparks. I wonder if I can keep them safe. I wonder how many dreams have been sent to me, floating on the wind, carried on soft breaths of hope. Some, I imagine, are simple—a wish for warmth, for love, for home. Others may be bigger, boundless things, too vast even for the sky to contain. I hope none of them are forgotten.

April 25, 2026

Somewhere on Earth, a newborn opened her eyes for the first time under my glow. I wonder if she will grow up watching me, if she will one day whisper secrets to the night. Will she point at me in wonder as a child? Will she write poems about me when she is older? Or will she be too busy to notice, caught up in the rush of life? I hope she looks up now and then. I hope she never stops wondering.

April 30, 2026

A lost ship drifted on the open sea, its captain using the stars to find his way. I wonder if he looked at me for guidance. I hope he found his way home. Long ago, sailors mapped their journeys by my phases, trusting me to light their path. I have seen ships lost and found, destinies changed by a single course correction. Tonight, I shine a little brighter, just in case someone out there needs me.

May 7, 2026

A boy read a story by candlelight, the pages glowing under my soft radiance. I wonder if it was a tale of adventure, of magic, of faraway lands. I hope it made him dream. Stories are a kind of light, too—a way to brighten the dark, to lead the lost, to give hope where there was none. I may not speak, but I have watched countless stories unfold beneath me. Some are beautiful. Some are tragic. But all of them matter.

May 12, 2026

A scientist pointed a telescope at me tonight, searching for answers in my craters and shadows. I wish I could tell her all the things I have seen. I wish I could share the memories I have gathered, the secrets etched into my dust. But I remain silent, as I always have. Still, I admire her curiosity, her endless search for understanding. Perhaps one day, she will discover something about me that no one else has before.

May 18, 2026

A garden bloomed beneath me, its petals unfurling in the cool night air. I may not bring warmth like the sun, but I can still make flowers grow. Some blooms only awaken under my watch, drinking in my quiet glow. I wonder if they feel safe in my light, if they know that I am watching over them. There is beauty in things that thrive in darkness, in the quiet strength of petals that refuse to close.

May 20, 2026

A wolf howled at me tonight, his voice rising in a lonely song. Perhaps he thinks I am listening. He is right. I have always heard them, the wolves, the wild ones, the creatures who sing to the night. Their voices echo across the mountains, filling the air with longing. I wonder if they understand me better than most, if they know what it is to be both seen and distant, to be part of the world yet always apart from it. Tonight, I howl back in silence, hoping they can hear.

Written by Amalia Dobrica.