To be her

Chapter 10

Beneath the Full Moon

The night was a void, heavy and inescapable. The stars scattered across the ink-stained sky were nothing more than distant witnesses, indifferent to the brokenness below. The moon hung above like a cold voyeur, its silver light pooling over the rooftop where Mal sat beside Glanville. Shadows stretched around them, hollow outlines of the things they carried but never said.
It was Glanville who had brought her here. To the roof. To this fragile space where the air was sharp and untamed, biting against her skin in a way that almost hurt, but not enough. He leaned back on his elbows, his profile cutting against the glow of the moonlight. But her gaze—it wasn't on him. It was lost in the stars, like she was searching for something he'd never find.
"You love the stars," he murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was low, almost like a confession. "Why?"
Mal didn't answer immediately. She didn't want to. Instead, she kept her eyes on the sky, letting its vastness swallow the lump rising in her throat. "Because they remind me of how insignificant we are," she said eventually, her voice a fragile thread. "And maybe... maybe that's the only thing that keeps me breathing some days. Knowing the weight of the world doesn't rest on me alone."
His head turned toward her then, his gaze slicing through her. "Comforting, or numbing?"
The question hit her like a slap, sharp and unrelenting. She inhaled a shaky breath but didn't respond. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her knees, her body curling inward as if that could protect her from the truth.. "The stars," she said, her voice softer now, like she was speaking to the night itself, "they're like ghosts, aren't they? Silent. Watching. Carrying all our secrets, all our pain. I wonder..." She trailed off, her lips curling into something too bitter to be a smile. "I wonder if they ever get tired of us."
He didn't answer, but her silence spoke louder than any words. It was a silence heavy with the weight of unspoken things, the kind that clung to the air like smoke, impossible to escape.
"Tell me about yourself," he said suddenly, his voice pulling her back to the moment.
Mal's fingers found the fabric of her dress, twisting it like it was the only anchor keeping her from drifting away. "I wasn't always here," she started, her voice brittle, as if the words themselves were fragile enough to break. "In this country, I mean. I moved a few years ago, after..." Her voice caught, the sentence splintering like glass.
"After what?" Glanville's tone was careful, but there was something in his eyes—something that told her he already knew.
"After my brother died," she whispered, the words escaping her like a scream trapped in a hollow breath.
Glanville straightened, the sharp edges of his features softening into something she couldn't bear to look at. "Mal..."
"He was my home," she continued, her voice trembling but relentless. "My safe place. The only person who ever really saw me. And then, one day, he was gone. Just... gone. No warnings. No goodbyes. Just this... void." Her voice cracked on the last word, the sound slicing through the quiet like a blade.
Glanville didn't speak. He didn't move. He just sat there, his presence solid and unwavering, like he knew words would only make it worse.
"I couldn't stay," she admitted, her voice breaking under the weight of the memories. "Every street, every café, every tiny corner was haunted by him. By us. It felt like I was suffocating. I begged my mom to let me leave, to get away from it all."
"Why didn't she want you to leave?" he asked, his voice cautious, like he was afraid of what her answer might be.
Mal let out a hollow laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. "Because she doesn't care about what I want. My mom... she's always been this force. This wall. She needs control over everything, especially me. And when I don't fit into her perfect picture, she shuts me out. Like I'm defective. Like I'm something she can't fix."
"And your dad?"
She shook her head, the bitterness in her laugh turning sharper. "He's never been there. Work is his world, and we're just... extras in the background." Her voice softened as she added, "But my sisters... they're the reason I'm still standing. They're all I have left."
Glanville's jaw clenched, his gaze falling to his hands. "That's... a lot, Malva. Losing someone like that. And your parents—" He stopped, shaking his head as if the words were too small for the weight of her pain.
"You don't have to say anything," she told him, her voice soft but firm. "I don't need your pity." She turned to him then, her eyes shimmering under the moonlight. "What about you? I've been spilling my soul here. It's your turn."
He hesitated, his lips parting like he wanted to speak, but the words wouldn't come. When he finally did, his voice was raw, almost broken. "My father... He's this immovable force. Nothing I do is ever good enough for him. He's mapped out every step of my life, like I'm not a person, just... a project."
Mal frowned. "What do you want?"
His answer came without hesitation. "To paint. To sketch. To create. But to him, it's all worthless. Art is just another way to fail in his eyes."
"That's not fair," she said, her voice trembling with anger on his behalf. "It's your life, not his."
Glanville let out a bitter laugh. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But how do you fight someone who holds your entire future in their hands?"
The weight of his words pressed down on her, familiar and suffocating. "My brother," she said quietly, her voice trembling but steady. "He would've told you to fight for it. He always said the only things worth chasing are the ones that make you feel alive. He'd tell you to pick up that brush and make it impossible for anyone to ignore."
Glanville's lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of hope, fragile but real. "I wish I'd met him."
"You kind of have," she whispered.
And in the silence that followed, something shifted. It wasn't loud or obvious, but it was there—a fragile connection, a bond forged in shared wounds.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"For what?"
"For reminding me that I'm not as alone as I thought."
Mal smiled, small and fleeting but genuine. "You're not. Not anymore."
And so they stayed there, two broken souls beneath a universe that didn't care, finding solace not in answers but in the quiet understanding that came with simply being seen.