My earliest memory of missing someone was when I was fifteen. It was my first boyfriend (I use the title loosely, since we only went out on one memorable date and saw each other three times during our forty-four days as a couple). So, of course, I missed him terribly when my family camped on Fraser Island during the school holidays.
While everyone snored rhythmically in their tents, I lay outside on the sand, stargazing. The single lopsided moon distracted me from the hundreds of stars twinkling in the vast, infinite sky. The sad thing about stars is that, to the untrained eye, they’re identical and only beautiful in a cluster. The moon, however, is special - it stands in solitude and looks over those who are equally lonely. It was then that I realised we could be anywhere in the world and still be looking at the same moon.
As a nostalgic person, I often reminisce and miss certain people. During those quiet moments, I wonder if they’re also gazing at the melancholy moon.