The moon was never blue.

 

It was December. The moon hung low, an eerie blue hue casting shadows across the dimly lit room. He stared at it through the window, hands trembling slightly as his thoughts spiralled into the familiar pit of despair. The moon was blue, as it had always been. At least to him, it was. Always blue. He couldn't help but see the world drenched in that same melancholic shade, a hue of isolation and sadness. Every night, everything, everyone, every single atom that caught the glimpse of his eyes was blue. Even the air in his lungs seemed blue, denser than it should be. As nights came and went, it seemed as if the air got heavier and heavier, dragging him down, hopelessly suffocating him. He wasn't born to be this way, to be blue; yet he couldn't recall the last moment he wasn't." The clock read 3:56 AM—another sleepless night in a string of endless nights. The nights felt raw, churning in the quiet, a deep weariness settled over him, one that went beyond just exhaustion—it was a sense of unravelling, a fear that by morning, he might lose even the thin thread of control he clung to. He gazed through the window, where the moon continued to hang pale and cold against the deep, dictating everything below it in endless blue. That familiar, melancholy hue flooded his mind, filling every corner, as if the sky itself was seeping into his thoughts, slowly erasing the light. Tomorrow was close, but it felt like he was already caught between today and an unfamiliar tomorrow—a place where the self he once knew was dissolving like mist in the morning.

 

"It's you again." His voice cracked as he spoke, almost as if he was testing the waters of his fate. There was no response, just the heavy silence of the night, thick with anticipation. It felt absurd, talking to the emptiness, but he could sense a familiar presence lingering just beyond the edge of his perception—something lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently.

"Funny," came a whisper from the other side of the room.

 

The Reaper, cloaked in shadow but familiar as ever, leaned against the wall, watching him with detached amusement. The Reaper moved closer, its presence warm and heavy. "You're tired," the Reaper acknowledged, its tone softer, almost sympathetic. "Talk to me. What is it that you're feeling? I'm here to help."

 

The man stood before the soul harvester, unsure at first. But as the gentle aura of the Reaper enveloped him, he began to pour out his innermost thoughts, like a dam breaking open and releasing its pent-up waters.

 

"I see the demons that people so desperately try to ignore—the shadows of ambition and pressure, silently festering beneath their perfect façades. It's not just a personal darkness; it's like a disease, woven into the very fabric of our world. I see it in every glance that lingers too long on the success of others, in every forced laugh when they'd rather cry, in the exhaustion they wear as a badge of honour. They call it 'drive,' 'determination,' 'making it,' but I see the truth—a pressure so immense that it turns people hollow, making them forget who they were before they signed up for this endless race. We pretend it's all worth it, the promotions, the achievements, the polished Instagram posts are proof of happiness, but it's just a veneer."

 

"To us, success is survival; failure is a sin. It's never enough. Always chasing, never catching up. Every time I try to breathe, try to escape it, it's like society itself pulls me back under, whispering that if I'm not climbing, if I'm not fighting, then my existence becomes futile.

 

"What's the point of all this?! I see no purpose..! No purpose of living."

 

"Perhaps you're right," the Reaper responded. "You don't have to live like this." Its calm response was like a soothing balm on a raw wound. Its gentle voice, like the scent of freshly baked scorn, filled the air, comforting the man. 

"Grab my hand, come with me. Let's run away from here..." The Reaper's hand extended towards him, a silent invitation to leave it all behind.
 

The man stayed silent for a while, but soon gave a small nod. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it, reaching forward as if to close the distance between them. His fingers stretched out, hesitating just inches away from the Reaper's hand. For a moment, he wondered if he'd feel anything—cold, warmth, a sense of release, maybe even peace.

"Brrrrr... Brrrrr... Brrr..."

 

The phone in his pocket vibrated, startling him. A phone call—now? He fished it out, staring at the screen. It was his mother. 

 

His heart skipped a beat. Why now? He hesitated, glancing at the Reaper, who remained still. He hadn't spoken to her in years. Still, something urged him to answer. With trembling hands, he brought the phone to his ear.

 

"...... Mum..?"

"Hey, honey." Her voice was gentle, a warmth he had almost forgotten existed. "I was just going through some old things and found a video of you. Do you remember when you were little? You were always talking about how you wanted to be a scientist, about how you were going to change the world."

 

He froze, memories rushing back. As a child, he had been so full of dreams, untainted by the weight of the world. In the background, he could hear his own voice, young and eager, passionately describing his ambitions to explore the universe. He had been so alive then, so certain that life had endless possibilities. Tears welled up in his eyes, his throat tight. Fire-like passion drowned in the overwhelming blue of his present life, but hearing his mother's voice, hearing that younger version of himself—it stirred something in him. 

 

The man wiped his eyes, the weight on his lungs feeling a little lighter. "I don't think I'm ready to go," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

 

 

It exhaled softly, almost a sigh. "I suppose I'll be going then. It seems my work here is... incomplete." There was a trace of something unexpected in his tone.

As the Reaper's form began to fade, the room felt lighter, the blue of the moon outside no longer seemed so suffocating. He glanced back at the phone, still clutched in his hand. 

"Mum... thank you. I—I think I needed that."

"You're stronger than you think," she replied, her voice steady and loving. "Just remember who you are and want to be."

 

He nodded to himself. He wasn't ready to give in, not to the Reaper, not to the overwhelming blue moon. Maybe things wouldn't change overnight, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe.

Then suddenly, the boy felt his body lift, weightless. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drifted into the pitch-black darkness where the blue moon hung high above, casting its haunting light across an endless expanse. As he drew nearer, he noticed countless tiny lights glimmering within that darkness. Their numbers seemed infinite, stretching as far as his eyes could see, filling the void with their delicate glow. 

"Are they stars?" he wondered to himself, feeling both stuned and embraced by their gentle glow.

And with a quiet breath, the boy finally asked aloud,

"Who are you?"

From somewhere within the sea of lights came a soft, almost imperceptible reply,