Page 33 of Blood Lust

MoonDance77: You’re quiet tonight.

Fang950: Watching the moon.

MoonDance77: Same. Big, fat, and ready to burst. Like it’s got something to say.

Fang950: What would it say to you?

MoonDance77: You’re not as alone as you think.

Fang950: You think the moon lies?

MoonDance77: I think I want it to be true.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering.

She’s typing again.

MoonDance77: I’m not trying to be dramatic. Just a long night with clients, family. Stuff.

Fang950: You don’t owe me an explanation.

MoonDance77: I know. Just feels good to talk to someone who doesn’t ask a hundred questions.

That puts a smile on my face.

She thinks I’m just pixels on a screen. Some faceless handle in the digital dark. Not the guy who knows her wine order by muscle memory. Not the guy who knows the way her hips sway slightly. Or has memorized her barely there smirk. Or is acutely aware of the unnatural rhythm of her breathing and blinking.

Her ignorance is my armor.

In the bar, I’m invisible.

Online, I’m whoever she needs me to be.

And in both worlds?

This knife’s-edge balance is the closest thing we have to intimacy.

Fang950: You’re not alone. I promise.

MoonDance77: That’s a nice thing to say. Even if it’s not true.

I could tell her right now. I could type: “I saw you last week. I watched you drink your wine with your sister. You wore that damn gray hoodie again.”

But I don’t.

Because that would shatter the only real connection I have with her.

Online, I’m not a runaway murderer, mental patient, or freak show. I’m just… me. A version of me that hasn’t been broken yet. The one that can still feel things without needing to bite through them.

Fang950: I’d sit next to you if I could. Just so the moon wasn’t the only one watching over you.

The reply doesn’t come for a minute. I think I’ve pushed too far.

Then...

MoonDance77: You’re good with words, Fang. For someone who never says anything in the main chat.

I laugh. It’s true. I only ever talk to her.

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