The Half Moon

by Mary Beth Keane

But it turned out people didn’t want things to be nice, they wanted them to be familiar.

She wasn’t angry, exactly. Or even hurt. It was more like she felt dazed, like everything she was doing, every part of her life, existed at a greater distance from her real self than she’d previously thought.

He told her that no one would ever love her like he did. She wanted to say that she agreed, but that it wasn’t relevant. No two people ever loved each other the same way.