Luna

Summer had slipped away in the blink of an eye this year. I never knew whether to love it or hate it. I liked the quiet of those school-free days, far from the chaos of classrooms and the muffled giggles that always left me feeling empty. But there was also that stifling heat, pressing down on me, and the house felt too big when I was alone. The ticking of the kitchen clock became almost deafening as I watched Celestia climb into a car with her friends, laughing.
The silence cut into my ears like a knife.

My parents adored her. Celestia was the perfect daughter: straight A’s, always smiling, a swarm of friends, and a clear plan for her future. I, on the other hand, was “the odd one.” Always with a book in hand, headphones on, and an inexplicable love for the darkness of my room. I had no friends. Maybe because I didn’t seek them out. Or maybe because they only saw me as someone to help with homework or recommend books.
They called me “antisocial.” Was that just their way of saying I was different? Since I was a child, my classmates avoided me, leaving me to feel like the odd one out. During parent-teacher conferences, my teachers would shake their heads and say, “She needs to open up more.”

Open up. To what, exactly? To whom? I always wondered why I was the one who had to change. Why was being different seen as wrong?
Celestia never missed an opportunity to point it out. Her sharp remarks were like pins—small but constant. “You should smile more, Luna,” she’d say in that tone that made my blood boil. Sometimes I wondered if I’d been born into the wrong family, because my world seemed so distant from theirs.
Celestia always had something to say about me: my clothes, my silences, even the books I read. “Don’t you ever get tired of reading sad stories?” she once asked, laughing with a friend. I just lowered my gaze, clutching the book to my chest.
And yet, my parents never seemed to notice how much her words hurt me. Celestia was their princess, the bright girl who filled the house with light. I, on the other hand, felt like a shadow, always one step behind. Maybe if I were different—more like her—I could earn an extra look of approval. But that thought only made me hurt more.

Today is my first day at Canterlot High. For Celestia, it’s her last first day. She always seemed so confident, as if nothing could shake her, ready to close her high school career with another collection of triumphs. Me? I was a tangle of emotions: nervousness, fear, and that familiar melancholy that never seemed to leave me. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to start. I kept asking myself: Will this time be any different? Or will I just end up as the same strange, quiet girl everyone avoids?
I opened my closet, staring at my clothes as if they could give me an answer. In the end, I chose something simple: a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I left my hair down, too lazy to do anything with it, and stuffed my headphones—my only real companions—into my backpack.
As I descended the stairs, the chatter from the kitchen reached my ears. The smell of coffee was inviting, but the thought of facing Celestia made me slow my steps. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Just survive the first day,” I told myself. “It’s not that hard… right?”

When I entered the kitchen, Celestia was already there, sitting at the table with her usual effortless elegance. She wore a light dress that seemed made just for her and was finishing her coffee. She barely glanced at me before flashing a sarcastic smile.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, eyeing me from head to toe. “Don’t tell me you stayed up reading all night. You look like a zombie.”
I stopped for a moment, clutching my headphones tightly. I decided to ignore her and poured myself a cappuccino, focusing on the warm liquid as it flowed into the cup.
“Celestia!” our mom scolded in a reproachful tone. “Can’t you be nice for once?”
“I’m just joking,” Celestia replied with a shrug.

I sat down silently, focusing on the cappuccino in front of me. Its warmth was comforting, but Celestia’s presence seemed to fill the air with subtle tension.
“Luna, are you ready for your first day?” my mom asked, smiling encouragingly.
I didn’t know what to say. “I think so,” I finally replied, though the knot in my stomach said otherwise.
My dad, seated at the head of the table with his newspaper folded beside him, placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Luna. You’ll get through this. You just need to believe in yourself.”
“And maybe be a little more sociable,” Celestia added with a chuckle. “Otherwise, they’ll think you’re a weirdo here too.”
My heart sped up. I felt my blood boiling, but before I could respond, my parents shot her a warning look.

“What your sister was trying to say,” my mom began, trying to diffuse the tension, “is that you should try to be more open. Take a page from her book.”

Gripping the handle of my cup tightly, I finally looked up at them. “I don’t think I’m a monster,” I said, my voice sharp but quiet. Then, grabbing a cookie, I added, “Not everyone is the same. Thankfully.” I glanced at Celestia, who smirked back at me.
“I want to be myself, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve never asked anyone to change for me, so I don’t see why I should have to.” I stood up, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and said, “If they don’t like me, that’s their problem, not mine.”
My mom froze, cup in hand, staring at me with a mix of worry and surprise. My dad looked at me in silence, as if searching for the right words to say. Celestia, meanwhile, lowered her gaze to her phone, smirking to herself.

The sound of a car horn broke the silence in the kitchen. I turned toward the door, knowing the bus had arrived.
“Have a great day, girls,” my mom said with her usual care. Then she leaned toward Celestia, lowering her voice, though not enough for me not to hear: “Keep an eye on her.”
Celestia rolled her eyes with an exasperated expression, muttering, “Fine.”
I didn’t respond. I opened the door and left without a word, letting it close behind me. Celestia followed me, and as we walked down the driveway to the bus stop, I could hear the sound of her boots on the asphalt, steady as a metronome.

The bus ride was short but felt like an eternity. Inside, it was crowded with students talking and laughing, filling the air with chaotic energy that made me uncomfortable. Celestia immediately sat with her friends, who started chatting animatedly.
I found a seat by the window, put on my headphones, and lost myself in watching the scenery. The noise around me blended with the music, turning into a confusing background hum.

When we arrived at Canterlot High, the building loomed before me. It was big, with red brick walls and bright windows reflecting the sky. The courtyard was full of students divided into groups, each with its own space and dynamic.
Everyone seemed to know exactly where to go, how to move, and who to talk to. I felt like a misplaced smudge on an otherwise perfect canvas.

Celestia walked past me without so much as a glance, heading straight for a group of students who greeted her with smiles and hugs. She didn’t need to search for her place; her world was already there, ready to embrace her.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to take one step after another toward the entrance. The crowd of students seemed to swallow me, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise.
The inside of the school was bright and clean, with colorful lockers lining the walls. The air was filled with voices and laughter, but every now and then, I caught a few glances that made me feel like I was being watched.

During class, when the teacher called my name, I timidly answered, “Present,” only to hear faint giggles behind me. I shrank into my seat, wishing I could disappear.

By lunchtime, I was already drained. Carrying my tray, I searched for a place to sit. I ended up with my desk mate and a few other girls from class. They talked and laughed, but I felt like a fish out of water.
“You never say anything,” one of them noted.
“Yeah, you’re always so quiet,” added another, laughing.

I looked around, desperate for an escape. In the distance, I saw Celestia sitting with her friends, laughing in perfect harmony, as if nothing in the world could disturb their balance.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up abruptly, mumbling something about going to the bathroom.

Once there, I locked myself in a stall and let the tears flow. It was only the first day, and already I felt the weight of everything. I wanted to disappear, to go home, to hide in my room and forget it all.

When the final bell rang, I returned home with Celestia. She seemed to be in a great mood, chatting about how happy she was to see her friends again. I stayed silent, nodding occasionally.

At dinner, our parents asked how the day had gone.
“Great,” Celestia replied with her usual bright smile.
“Normal,” I muttered, staring at my plate.

After eating, I retreated to my room. I lay on my bed, put on my headphones, and let the music wrap around me, trying to push the day’s thoughts away.
When night came, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. My mind kept replaying the whispers, the laughter, the stares.
Finally, sleep came, and everything faded to black.