Levy’s Longing
Levy had always found comfort in closeness. As a baby, that closeness came from Luna—warm, constant, and safe. Even as he grew older, the memory of those quiet moments never left him. It wasn’t just about nourishment; it was about the bond, the feeling that everything in the world was steady and right.
But Levy was no longer a baby.
Still, the longing lingered. On restless nights, when the world felt too loud or too distant, he found himself thinking about those early days. The softness, the calm, the way Luna would hum gently without even realizing it. It became something he couldn’t quite let go of—a habit of memory that blurred into desire.
One evening, after a particularly overwhelming day, Levy approached Luna. He hesitated, unsure how to express something that even he didn’t fully understand. “I just… I miss how things used to be,” he said quietly.
Luna looked at him, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. She understood what he meant, but also what he was asking. “Levy,” she said gently, “that time has passed. You’ve grown.”
“But I still feel the same,” he insisted. “I just want to feel close again.”
Luna shook her head softly. “Closeness doesn’t stay the same forever. It changes as we do. What you’re asking for—it’s not something we can go back to.”
Her words landed heavily. Levy hadn’t expected her to agree so easily, but the rejection still stung. It wasn’t anger in her voice, nor judgment—just a firm boundary.
For the first time, Levy began to understand that what he was holding onto wasn’t really about the act itself. It was about comfort, safety, and connection—things that could still exist, just in different forms.
Luna reached out and pulled him into a hug. “I’m still here,” she said. “Just not in the same way.”
Levy closed his eyes, realizing that maybe growing up didn’t mean losing closeness—it meant learning how to find it again.
