She framed it as confusion. She didn't understand why he went quiet for days, why answers never quite came, why she kept explaining his silence to herself. She wanted clarity.
The Moon turned over, and we both went still. Because the Moon isn't really about not knowing. It's about the part of you that knows, and looks away.
The Moon doesn't withhold the truth
It shows the path lit just enough to walk, with two towers and a long shadow. The point isn't that the answer is hidden — it's that you've been choosing not to look directly at it, because looking would ask something of you.
What she'd been doing
As we talked, she heard her own sentences: "he's just busy," "he's bad at texting," "it's probably nothing." Each one a small, kind lie that let her stay. She wasn't confused about whether he was showing up for her. She was waiting for an explanation gentle enough that she wouldn't have to leave.
The Moon didn't give her a villain or a verdict. It gave her back her own knowing. The hardest part wasn't the silence — it was admitting she'd already understood it, and had been translating it into something easier to hold.