The Moonlight That Cuts Through The Night
By Shouyi Yan
Shouyi Yan is a student at California State University, Chico studying Game Development with a minor in Creative Writing. Growing up in Beiliu, a rural town in China and immigrating to California at the age of 5, she is a first-generation college student and the oldest of four children.
Lucile Carver became my one and only friend. We became friends during senior year despite having the same classes since we were both freshmen. At first, I hated her. Lucile was a talkative student, constantly asking and answering questions. Our classmates would hang onto every word that came out of her mouth as if she stood on a stage with the spotlight over her head. She was involved in school, being a lead runner in our school’s track and field team and attended almost every school event. If I could describe Lucile in one word, she was like the sun. It was hard to look at her with her bright radiance. And even if you look away, you could tell the sun is there, shining every day without an end. I never asked for such light. Seeing her so full of energy had pissed me off to no end. At the end of junior year, she walked up to me with a bright smile and said she hoped to be in the same classes as me next year too. My answer came in the form of a shrug before walking away. I had no interest in playing nice. I had only wanted to enjoy my final year of high school like usual—alone and in-peace-and-quiet.
My senior year started like any other school year. Though anyone would be excited for their last year in high school, and I suppose I was too. But deep down, I didn’t know what would come after. And the uncertainty in my future made me dread going to school, yet I knew I had to go; I felt obligated to finish what I had started. But I’ve been so focused on studying that I wasn’t sure of my plans after graduation. Yet despite that, I was still filled with the same impatience as anyone else to get this year over with. That impatience soon reached its boiling point and threatened to spill, all because of Lucile. French 3 was my first period class during senior year. Of course, Lucile had this class too. And to my luck, on the first day of school, to my first class, the first face I saw was hers.
“Good morning, what a coincidence that you’re the first person I see today,” she said. I didn’t reply, but Lucile just smiled warmly and held the door to the classroom open for me. Her kindness annoyed me, yet I couldn’t help but give her a quiet “thank-you” before going inside. My response only caused her to bug me even more.
The library had been my own oasis for the four years of my high school life. It was big and usually empty—except when midterms or finals were approaching. When I was here, I would sit in the tables furthest from the window, to avoid the blinding sun. When it rained, I watched the drops of water flow down the window panel. And during cloudy days, I’d sip on hot chocolate and read abstract works of fiction. Sometimes I would take a nap. Sometimes I would do my homework or study ahead for class. It was quiet and peaceful, a utopia just for me—until Lucile forced herself into it.
“I had a feeling I would find you here.”
I didn’t have to look up from my book to know who sat down beside me. I thought if I ignored her, she would leave me alone and let me return to my peace. She continued regardless, “I’ve never seen you at the rallies even though they’re mandatory. How come you’re allowed to be here?”
I focused on my book, blocking out her attempts at starting a conversation. When I didn’t answer, she snatched the book I was reading out of my hands.
“You know it’s a bit rude to ignore someone when they’re asking you a question.”
I frowned and stared at her with my brows furrowed, but my lips were still shut tight. She only flashed me a smile and hid my book behind her back.
“Now that I have your attention, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
I took a minute before I finally answered her.
“I don’t like them.”
“The... rallies?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s all.”
Lucile’s expression was one of exasperation. But she didn’t question me any further. Instead Lucile returned my book before sitting down beside me. And it didn’t stop there. Lunch breaks, study hall, whenever she could, she would follow me to the library and steal the seat next to mine. In the beginning, I ignored her, tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Sometimes she would ask what I was reading. Sometimes she would read too. It took a week before I finally snapped and asked her what she wanted. She only grinned and said, “I just want to spend some time with the lonesome you.”
I huffed at her remark and told her to leave me alone. She only playfully shook her head and asked me the same question she had been asking for the past week—if she could be friends with me. I didn’t answer, but I did start to sit in tables near the windows. It felt nice to feel the sunshine on my skin once in a while. Lucile had also bugged me to get more vitamin D. She told me it would help with my pale, sickly complexion. It took two more weeks before I gave up and said yes to her never-ending request for my friendship.
Two days later, the end of the month arrived. And once again, Lucile skipped the mandatory rally to visit me at the library. The next month, the same thing happened. My curiosity got the better of me, and I asked if she would get in trouble if she skipped so many rallies.
“No...?”
“Your answer doesn’t sound very confident,” I chided, “You should go back then. I’m allowed to be here, but you’ll get in trouble if you skip too many.”
She closed her book and stated, “Well if you’re not going, then I’m not going.”
“You’re going to get a week’s worth of detention if you skip the next one.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do them after school, so I’ll still see you during lunch.”
I scowled at her. She laughed.
“I’m being serious here. Go to the rally.”
“I don’t wanna,” she pouted in a childish voice.
“Have it your way,” I said before I returned my attention back to my book.
“If you don’t go, I’ll get detention,” Lucile teased. I rolled my eyes but put my book down as Lucile pulled me out of my chair. And that’s how I went to my first rally since freshman year. It was loud and annoying. But I cheered and strained my throat for the first time all because of Lucile.
My relationship with the winter season was one of love and hate. School was unusually quiet during this season. Causes of this ranged from finals to the annual winter bug—or flu season. I loved the peace and quiet. And I was much more comfortable wearing more layers of clothing than wearing less of them. But the downside of winter was that I was often sick during this season. Before, it wasn’t too bad, just a regular cold. I could still go to school with a face mask and a handful of lozenges.
However, in senior year, my regular winter cold turned for the worse. I recall awaking to an insufferable swing of feeling too hot and then, too cold. It came and went like a pendulum. I couldn’t muster up any strength to get out of bed. My parents panicked when I didn’t recover over the weekend. I was sent to the ER and had to be hospitalized for a week so the doctors could monitor any more changes to my health. The familiar stench of the hospital was only sufferable because of Lucile’s frequent calls. Her first call was a curious questioning of why I hadn’t been at school for a couple of days. When I told her that it was just a troublesome cold, she went on a rant about me taking better care of myself. When I didn’t show up for the next few days, Lucile called daily to check up on me. I assured her each time that I was fine and would be back at school the following week.
But even I didn’t know if that would be true. Being bedridden in a hospital only filled me with thoughts of the worst possible scenarios. So, with nothing but time on my hands, I wrote a letter to Lucile for the sake of insurance. A letter that would only be sent if things turned for the worst. But I recovered and was back at school before January ended. Relief washed over me, but it didn’t stop me from keeping the letter, for insurance sake.
Lucile was on the school’s track and field team as a mid-distance runner. It was no surprise with that endless supply of energy she had. Her practice was every day after school. When the spring of our senior year came, Lucile bugged me to attend her track meets.
“You’re so thin and pale. Why not spend some time outdoors? It’d be good for you,” she mentioned. I shrugged and told her I’d come when I’m not busy.
The first track meet I attended happened on a surprisingly hot day for the spring season. I sat on the top row of the bleachers and regretted attending as the sun reached its peak in the sky. Lucile ran the 800 meters, so she wasn’t going to come out until the final hours of the event. My impatience grew by the hour. Not only was I being cooked alive, but the guy sitting next to me had the loudest voice. He cheered for every runner that came out. And when his son reached the finish line, I thought my eardrums were going to pop. I had accepted his fourth apology for accidentally elbowing me when Lucile finally came out. Right after the pistol signaled the start of the 800 m sprint, Lucile flew ahead of the other runners by an arm’s length. She ran so freely, like the wind. Thin dust trails kicked up from the soles of her shoes. Even from where I sat, I could tell she had a confident smile on her face. I wondered if that confidence of hers was what brought her to victory. After crossing the finish line, a couple of her teammates rushed over to her with hugs and plenty of water bottles. I watched Lucile gulp down a bottle of water like it was nothing. When she finished draining it and crushed it in her hand, our eyes met. She grinned and shouted my name with her arms high, waving like a flag of victory. I waved back—despite the embarrassment.
As the event ended, I stayed on top of the empty bleachers. Lucile had told me to wait for her. And even though, I just wanted to go home and rid myself of my sweat- I stayed. The bleachers creaked as Lucile stepped onto them. When she reached the seats just below mine, the lowering sun had hit her face at an angle where the sweat on her face sparkled, casting off light. She shined, and it brightened the smile on her face even more. I stared at her and wondered if she was truly a person that existed in my life or if I was just dreaming. Lucile broke my train of thought by waving a hand in front of my face. Embarrassed, I brushed my thoughts away by congratulating her. She gave me one more smile, and together, we walked to the parking lot where my parents were waiting.
“Thanks for coming,” she said when we exchanged our goodbyes.
“You know, you’re the only one I’d do this for,” I replied with a smirk but then quickly realized the meaning of my words. My face burned bright and turned to escape. But Lucile was faster than I ever was and will be. She grabbed my arm and pulled me close to her. I froze in place, not used to contact with someone other than my parents. Our bodies mashed together clumsily, yet it felt right, like she was a part of me, like a puzzle piece I had lost years ago. I awkwardly wrapped my arms around Lucile in return and patted her shoulder. She laughed at that. My body would tingle when her breath hit against my ear. It felt like minutes had passed as we stayed like that. Amidst the mingling of our sweat, I wondered if I was allowed this much happiness if I’d only regret it in the end. Nevertheless, our carefree days would continue until the ever-daunting future stepped right in front of us.
It was a week before graduation, and Lucile decided it would be fun to go stargazing. At nightfall, we drove to Mnene Peak, which was just outside of town. The sky was clearer at the summit than anywhere I’ve seen it. We laid under the stars with a picnic blanket covering the patches of grass and dirt beneath us. Moments later, Lucile started to rummage through her bag. I watched her before she took out two bracelets and gestured for my hand. I complied and held out my hand.
“I know friendship bracelets are a bit outdated, but...” Lucile trailed off as she tied the red braided strings around my wrist. The moon cast its light onto the round stone that sat in the middle of the bracelet. The stone’s surface shone like a fragmented rainbow.
“Is this opal?” I asked.
“Nope, it’s moonstone. Opal is a bit too expensive for me right now, but—” she paused, “give me like ten more years, and I’ll buy some actual Opal and make another set for us!”
I shook my head.
“No, this is fine,” I said, twisting the bracelet around my wrist.
“It’s great,” I finished with quiet admiration and a ghost of a smile on my lips. Lucile held out the other bracelet to me. I stared at it before I gave her a confused look.
“I can’t tie it myself,” she explained.
It took three tries before I could properly knot the strings securely around Lucile’s wrist. My fingers were clumsy, not by nature but because the moment felt too intimate; like we were making a silent vow. Though, instead of rings, they were red strings tied around our wrist. When I finally got the bracelet secured on Lucile’s wrist, she raised her hand up to the moonlight and watched the moonstone glisten in the middle of a dark sky. The moon glowed brightly above us. Large, round, and yet calming to see. A gentle light that had cut through the dark. I fiddled with my bracelet, rubbing the moonstone’s smooth surface. Then, I asked a question that was always on my mind.
“Why did you become friends with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know I’m not sociable, downright gloomy. Not to mention that I had been so rude to you too! So, why?”
Lucile laughed. It wasn’t one of those loud and obnoxious laughs I’d always hear at school. And it wasn’t the one she laughs when trying to tell a joke. Instead, it was a sound that was clear and light-hearted, like windchimes on a mid-summer day. I elbowed her stomach in annoyance, which only caused her to playfully elbow me back. When it quieted down, I turned to see that she was seriously thinking about it.
“Well, I did hate you at first. A mutual feeling I’m sure. You never seemed to like me either.”
I swallowed my heart down my throat but nodded for her to continue.
“You were like the opposite of me. Dark and gloomy… You know, my parents named me Lucile so that I could bring light into the lives of others. And that’s what I grew up trying to be. Someone who makes others happy. Someone always bright like the sun.”
“That must be exhausting,” I had cut in. I could only imagine how much energy it takes to always be so kind and optimistic. Lucile shrugged.
“Yeah, sometimes it is. But I take joy from it. It makes me happy to see others happy. And it’s not always bad. Nice even, to be the center of attention,” she said with a lighthearted tone. Then, her tone sharpened.
“But you, I could never seem to make you smile. And I hated you for that. Everyone else had warmed up to me. Everyone had responded to me—but you never gave me a second look. You didn’t give anyone a second look. It was almost as if I didn’t exist to you, as if no one did. You had these tall walls built around you. And I tried to ignore you at first; I know I can’t make everyone happy and you—specifically—felt like a lost cause. But we’ve been in so many classes together for the past four years that it felt a challenge. You became an obstacle that was placed in front of me. In my head, it felt like some higher power was pointing at you and said ‘I bet you can’t make her happy. I bet you can’t make her smile’. And I just snapped and took on the challenge. And while it was difficult at first…”
She tilted her head towards me with a smirk. I rolled my eyes but smiled back.
“The competitive side of me got more fired up. And luckily it was all worth it in the end. The more expressions you showed, the more excited I felt. It was fun to hang around you and I felt so proud that I was the only one who could make you happy. You changed… me. I didn’t just want to make you happy, I wanted to be with you. I still want to be with you, from here on out to forever.”
I bit my lip, trying to hold down a smile. Lucile wasn’t turned towards me and she had her head tilted up towards the moon, face freshly flushed. I was thankful for that because I would be even more embarrassed if she saw the expression on my face. I bet it was a stupid one because I felt stupid. I felt silly and giddy like I was on cloud-nine or a kid on Christmas. I don’t think I have ever felt so happy in my entire god-damned existence. But an echo replayed in my head. Am I really allowed this much happiness? It hurt me to hear it and I cursed at it. It was then that I decided I would live without regret. My hands felt loose and clammy. My stomach churned. And a tingly feeling shook my body. But at the same time, I felt numb. I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“They gave you a good name. It fits you pretty well. And you did make me happy. I haven’t smiled so much in so long and... You changed me too, if you want some more praise.”
When no sound of reaction came, I looked over to her. Her face still wasn’t turned to me, but I could tell she had the biggest smile on her face. A smile that would have radiated brighter than the full moon if I had seen it in its entirety. I looked away, flustered that my own words could cause such a feat. In that blissful moment, a mixture of emotions swelled from within me. I swallowed the heavy air that sat in my throat, not sure what to do with the words stuck in there. I had an avalanche of things I wanted to say, but it would take a lifetime to truly explain it all. The old me would have thrown them all away, but the new me knew I’d regret it if I didn’t—at least—kept some of them. I felt like I was getting drunk off the moonlight as a newfound courage surged forth.
“Hey Lucile?”
I waited for her full attention before continuing.
“Thank you. You…” I paused, trying to pick out the right words, “You taught me that vivre sans aimer n’est pas proprement vivre.”
Lucile repeated my words in broken and poorly pronounced parts. Her forehead wrinkled as she gave me a pleading look, begging me to translate what I said. She was never very good at French. I huffed and told her she still needed to work on her pronunciation. When she saw that I wouldn’t budge, Lucile let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Fine, but as soon as I get home, I’m going to translate it. Just. You. Wait.”
She dragged out her speech, poking at my arm with each word. I laughed at her and told her I would wait for her response, even if it takes forever.
Ironically, I died on the day of my high school graduation. Of course, I had expected death to come sooner or later. I was never that healthy as a kid. My weight fell well below the average. And I was always depressed, as if any and all hope was extinguished from my life. My parents took me to the doctors regularly, and just before my high school career started, they diagnosed me with pancreatic cancer. Even after years of treatment and finally surgery, the doctors warned me that recurrence was likely. Instead of waiting for my final days and confining myself in a cold antiseptic hospital, I decided to return to my regular life. But I couldn’t bring myself to really care about anything anymore. I felt like an empty husk pretending to be a normal student because I didn’t know what else I could be. I didn’t know how to be anything else. As I watched the years of my high school life go by, it felt as if I was walking on an empty road, just waiting to finally reach that dead-end.
Lucile was the one who changed all of that. From her, I felt renewed. She made me feel like I was truly alive and sometimes, I forgot I was even sick. For once I enjoyed getting up every morning and going to school. I laughed and smiled, even if I felt rusty showing such emotion. It was a double-edged blade and I knew that. The more I enjoyed myself, the more I’d hope for things that couldn’t come true. I couldn’t tell Lucile. I was scared to. Terrified that the truth would hurt her and put out her light. That she would leave me because of what I truly was—a ticking time bomb. But I still wanted to be with her until the end of my time.
It finally came that night. When I arrived home from Mnene Peak, I felt a familiar pain spreading through my abdomen, and I knew that I had reached that dead-end. Even when my parents rushed me to the hospital with words of hope and comfort, I could only think of my final moments with Lucile.
For a week, I suffered in a battle of life and death and what encouraged me to fight for my life was Lucile. I would try to stay awake for as long as I could but even if I was awake, I was too drugged up to comprehend what was going on. The bits and pieces of what I do remember were of my parents holding my hand and crying; the nurses checking on me and switching my IVs; and doctors talking in muffled voices. But unconsciousness would always come to swallow me whole. In my sleep, I dreamed about happier things. At first, I had memories of Lucile smiling and telling me jokes. Then, I dreamed of spending an extended life with her. We would graduate together. Lucile would have a job in the social services where she’d help kids like me in the hospital. She read stories out loud, holding a picture book up for all to see. Or she would just be there for them, in their time of need. I would visit them with her from time to time. We would move into a nice apartment complex with a locally owned cafe two blocks down and a park with a big library a street over. Every other morning, we would grab coffee before heading to work. On the weekend, we would walk to the library and plan on what pet we’d adopt. Lucile would be begging for at least two dogs and a cat, but I’d tell her we wouldn’t have the time or space for all of them. We’d compromise and adopt a golden retriever which we named Sunshine. My last dream was of us well-aged and sitting out on the porch in a midsummer’s day. We reminisce our high school days and I’d rub the opal on my ring before holding her hand.
Even up to my last moments as death prepared its final strike on my life, I thought of Lucile. I got my dream, in the form of one too. And the last thing I saw and felt would be a light that cut through the dark.
Dearest Lucile,
When this letter reaches you, I assume what you’d feel is anger. And I apologize for keeping you in the dark. But I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. And most of all, I don’t want it from you.
I’m writing this letter because I became scared and even now, I’m fearing the worst. I think I’ve always have been scared but since I met you, it elevated to a whole other level. Now, every time I cough or feel any sort of pain, I’d fear the end has come. You don’t know how terrifying sitting in a hospital bed can be. I told you that I was just down with a stupid cold, but I don’t know. I haven’t been this sick since… Well it’s been a couple of years. Some nights I would wake up coughing and fear that when I close my eyes, I’d be gone the next morning. I can’t stand it. What I wouldn’t give to sit in class and listen to you read an excerpt from Hamlet in your silly voice with that dumb accent. To be or not to be, and what I wouldn't give not to be sick anymore.
When I was first diagnosed, the doctors told me that I’d have to accept death. It would be better to. And I would be less afraid of it if I did. And I had. But when I got to know you, I relearned how beautiful life truly is. You taught me a love that I had never experienced before and a lot of other emotions I didn’t know even existed. You make me forget that I’m supposed to accept death at any time. And I hate and love you for it. You make me want to fight death. And I would with every aching bone in my body if it meant I could spend a life with you.
Everyone compares you to the sun. And it’s true. You’re always so bright and warm and necessary. Someone like you is what keeps others alive. You keep me alive. And while that’s true, for me, you’re also the moon, you’re my moon. In my darkest times, you’d shine your gentle light and guide me home, home to you. Sometimes I’d be selfish and think that the moon only existed for me. That we were created for each other. And I can only dream that you need me as much as I need you. After all, the moon can’t shine without the night, the dark.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I want to protect you. I fear that if you knew, your light would disappear. But I’m also playing the role of a coward, leaving you with a letter instead of a proper farewell. And you deserve more than that, if anything you deserve the world. If I go, the only thing I'd regret is that I couldn’t give it to you myself.
When I’m gone, all I want to take with me are memories of you. I don’t need your tears or any eulogies. The dead wouldn’t hear them anyways. All I want is to selfishly take these memories and live in them forever because I know these moments are when I truly felt like I was alive. And what you do after I’m gone is up to you. I can’t ask you to remember me or forget me. Because a part of me just wants you to forget, those memories would only bring you sadness. God knows I’d kill myself all over again if I let you be sad. But a selfish, stubborn part of me wants you to remember me, so I could live on and exist from within you.
I think I loved you from the start. And to think I hated you at first. I was just fooling myself. After all, how could someone like me love when it would be meaningless in the end. But I know now, that as much as I hated you, I had loved you even more. I know your French is bad but for once I hope you know what this means:
Je t’aime pour toujours
Yours forever,
Anemone B.
Interview With The Author
1. First, how did you hear about Quirk submissions and what was your reaction to being accepted?
I learned about Quirk submissions through my English professor, Rob Davidson, who is also the Creative Writing advisor. He was the one who encouraged me to submit my work. When I learned that I got accepted, I fell into a sort of disbelief. This is actually my first time submitting work to a publication or anything official, so to have been chosen really makes me feel that my writing can create an impression or, at least, is good enough to be published officially.
2. What inspired the creation of “The Moonlight that Cuts through the Night”?
My piece, "The Moonlight that Cuts through the Night", was originally drafted for my Fiction Writing class. At first, I aimed to write a supernatural story about a ghost who regrets not being able to confess their love but the plot eventually evolved into an emotional piece that explores the developing relationship between two women.
3. How did you start writing?
I had read a lot as a child and practically went to the library every weekend. I fell in love with the worlds and relationships created in books such as The Sisters Grimm and A Series of Unfortunate Events. I don't really have a favorite author but I have a long list of favorite books. Growing up, I became more interested in writing instead of reading to see if I could come up with stories of my own.
4. Why do you write?
In high school, I realize there was more to writing than just books. After playing many story-driven games like the Mass Effect trilogy, the Dragon Age series, and countless visual novels, I became interested in writing stories for video games, hence my major in Game Development. As of now, I write more as a hobby than anything professional. A lot of my works ended up scraped or never finished even to this day.
5. If asked to define your work in three words, what would those words be?
Three words to describe my piece would be: "desiring for light".
6. Is there anything you would like those who view your piece to know?
I just hope the readers can feel the love that goes into this piece and experience the emotions I hope to invoke as they read. I am really grateful for my friend Mel who helped me create this love story and all my peers that gave me the confidence to show the world my work.
Editorial Comments:
“The Moonlight that Cuts through the Night,” is a well-crafted romantic tale about isolation, companionship, and love. This work stood out for its ability to invoke a range of human emotions. Our team wanted to include pieces that readers could connect with, which we agree that the two engaging lead characters accomplishes that goal.