What the Moon Never Knew

1. The Moon Never Knew

Noon at Seabridge High. The front gate was swarmed with students, chatter echoing through the streets like an uncontainable river.

Boys and girls in blue uniforms spilled out in waves, their laughter fluttering through the air before dissolving into the rustling leaves of the sidewalk trees.

Amid all that motion, one still figure stood out.

A boy, around fifteen or sixteen, stood stiffly across the street in front of a store called The Purple Shell, its glowing white sign casting a dreamy light.

He took a deep breath and awkwardly stepped inside the glittering little world.

The shop was quiet, dim, and lined floor to ceiling with shimmering accessories. A few girls stood whispering by the shelves, deciding what to buy.

The boy clenched his jaw and marched past them, eyes forward, until he spotted a woman in a black dress sitting with her back to him.

“She’s next door,” he said gruffly.

It was a simple sentence, but like a secret code, it made the woman spin her chair and reach for a compact mirror without missing a beat.

She had her dark hair pulled into a high bun, soft violet around her eyes, and sparkles dusted on her eyelids—her gaze glimmered like rippling water. Around her neck hung a thin platinum chain, suspending a dainty purple seashell.

She touched up her lipstick with a graceful motion and stood, trailing a breeze of perfume.

“Julien Moreau, watch the shop!”

The boy groaned and stomped his foot. “Hurry up! I’m starving!”

She waved him off, moving lightly out the door and turning left.

Next door was a café. The afternoon sun poured in through the glass storefront, where she spotted a tall man standing at the counter, ordering from the digital screen.

From her angle, she caught his profile: strong brows, a straight nose, pale lips. Despite the crowds, he stood with an air of quiet solitude—lean, upright, but tired around the eyes.

She watched him for a moment, then tucked the shell pendant into her blouse and pushed the café door open.

Inside, the place was dressed in deep chocolate tones, made bright by the lunchtime bustle. She walked up beside him and glanced at the menu.

“I’ll have an iced latte, thanks,” he said to the barista.

“Make that two,” she chimed in with a crisp voice.

He turned, surprised and slightly confused.

“My treat,” she said with a dazzling smile.

He stared at her. “Sorry, do I know you…?”

“Hey, sis!” A teenage boy burst in, clutching a fistful of sparkly trinkets. “How much are these?”

Then, to the man beside her, he added with a respectful nod, “Hi, Mr. Bennett.”

She rolled her eyes but answered, “Twenty-seven bucks.”

The boy darted back to the shop.

A soft laugh came from across the counter.

“Camille Moreau,” the man said, recognition lighting his eyes.

She blinked, her pupils reflecting his face.

“It’s me—Oliver Bennett.”

---

2. The Seasons in Her Eyes

Steam clouded the bathroom mirror.

Camille Moreau wiped away the fog and looked at the reflection staring back.

Her nose wasn’t very sharp, the tip a little round. Without makeup, her eyes looked smaller, single-lidded and a bit dull. Sparse brows didn’t help.

It was a face nothing like the made-up version she wore in public—but it was her real face. The one she had at sixteen.

She’d spent a decade learning how to grow, how to look better—and still, Oliver Bennett had recognized her instantly.

She wasn’t sure what she felt: joy, unease, something in between.

“Dinner’s ready!” Julien called.

Camille left the bathroom and took her seat at the small dining table.

“Parent-teacher meeting is this Friday,” Julien said, sliding over a steaming bowl of noodles.

Camille’s eyes lit up. “Your big sis has been dying to know how you’re doing in school.”

Julien rubbed his arms like she’d given him chills. Camille asked casually, “So, what kind of teacher is he?”

“He’s okay with the girls. Tough on the boys. A lot of guys don’t like him much.”

She gave him a flick on the forehead. “You better behave.” Then, after a few bites, “Find out if he has a girlfriend yet?”

Julien rolled his eyes—just like her when she was annoyed.

“Someone asked last week. He said he’s single.”

Friday afternoon, Camille put extra effort into her appearance and arrived early at the school.

The campus had changed—new paint on the buildings, a brighter track field—but the old stone statue of Confucius was more weathered than she remembered.

She climbed the stairs of the teaching building and stepped onto the connecting walkway. From there, she could see both wings of the structure and the courtyard where students used to gather. Laughter had always echoed up through these halls.

Elbows on the railing, she leaned forward, looking across to the parallel wing.

She used to stand here between classes, hoping for a glimpse of him—sometimes holding books, sometimes in a basketball jersey—and follow him with her eyes like a moth chasing a light.

“What are you looking at?”

Startled, she turned to find Oliver Bennett in a pale green shirt, smiling gently with a stack of folders in his arms.

Almost without thinking, Camille replied, “You.”

Her eyes were calm, like water in a lake—gentle, but unfathomable. He was about to dive deeper when she looked away, scratching her ear. “I mean, I was looking for you. Got a bit lost.”

He chuckled. “You’re here for Julien’s meeting?”

She nodded.

“You’ve changed a lot. Took me a minute to be sure it was you.”

“I didn’t expect you to come back here to teach,” she said, glancing at him.

He gave a small, easy smile. “It’s steady work.”

They walked together down the hall to Julien’s classroom, where parents were beginning to take their seats.

Before he stepped inside, she called out, “We didn’t get to catch up properly last time. Want to grab a meal sometime?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

She took a seat marked with her brother’s name. Under the desk, her fingers slowly uncurled from the fist she’d been holding. Her palm was damp, glittering faintly—like a memory, like now, like a heart beating too fast to hide.

---

3. What Was Never Mine and What Couldn’t Be Held

Inside Zero Degrees Café, Camille Moreau sat by the window, chin resting on her hand, eyes drifting across the street to the campus beyond.

It was Sunday. She and Oliver Bennett had planned to meet for a meal, but he’d gone to school early for something, so she waited here.

Seabridge High had changed a lot over the years. The area had grown vibrant and busy—so different from their time, when the newly built campus sat in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by emptiness.

Her parents used to run a small goods business, and Camille would bring things to school—stationery, dorm supplies, quirky trinkets. For a while, she was practically a celebrity among the students.

Until, of course, the teachers shut that down with a strict ban.

Camille blinked, her mind drifting to the very first time she met Oliver Bennett.

It happened outside the teachers’ office.

She’d just been scolded for selling things on campus—accused of not focusing on her studies. Oliver had been called in that day too, after getting into a physical fight during PE.

When she stepped out of the office, she saw him leaning lazily against the railing, probably waiting for his guardian to finish talking to the teacher. The sunset blurred the edges of his face, but a few fresh scratches on his left cheek stood out starkly.

Camille hesitated, then fished a small box of band-aids from her backpack and handed it to him.

He took it with a slight curve of his lips, about to say “Thanks…”

“Five yuan,” she cut in.

He paused, caught off guard, the second “thanks” stuck in his throat.

She looked up at him with a serious, slightly blank expression, her blunt bangs barely brushing her brows.

He didn’t move for a while. Camille noticed the bruise at the corner of his mouth and scratched her ear awkwardly.

“Fine,” she said softly. “It’s free.”

She turned to go, but he caught the strap of her backpack.

She stopped and looked back, watching him pull a few bills and coins from his pocket and press them into her hand.

“Thank you,” he said again, his smile warm, his silhouette haloed by the dying light—rough around the edges but strangely gentle.

At the turn of the stairs, she glanced back one more time.

An elderly man, presumably his grandfather, had come out of the office and was clearly scolding him. Oliver lowered his head like a schoolboy—his usual defiance gone. He even reached up to straighten the old man’s askew cap.

The sky darkened further, casting him in silhouette—an image that inexplicably etched itself into her memory.

It hadn’t been hard for Camille to learn his name.

Rumor had it he lived with his grandparents. No one knew where his parents were—some said they’d run off after scamming people for money. He barely had pocket change. Breakfast, most days, was a scallion pancake for one yuan. People called him arrogant, standoffish. Some of the tougher kids in class excluded him outright.

But what stuck with Camille the most was this: that five yuan was likely his breakfast money for the entire week.

She’d been deeply uneasy about it ever since, wondering how she could return it without making him feel awkward.

So she began looking for him during recess, leaning over the railings, hoping to catch a glimpse. Sometimes she’d end up walking part of the way home behind him.

He was always alone, walking straight ahead, never once noticing the girl lingering a few steps behind.

Then came the turning point—a quiet, ordinary evening.

That day, Camille had unknowingly followed him into the apartment complex where he lived. Just as she was working up the courage to call out to him, a cry rang out nearby—a woman’s voice, panicked and broken.

She turned her head and saw what the woman saw: a toddler, maybe two or three, wedged between the bars of a seventh-floor window grille.

Oliver dropped his backpack and school jacket in one smooth motion, snatched the trembling keys from the woman’s hand, and bolted up the stairs.

The child was flailing, the old metal bars shaking dangerously with each movement. It was terrifying to watch.

Oliver was racing against time.

Those few minutes felt like both forever and a flash. Camille stood below, head craned back, just in time to see him appear in the window like a gust of wind—then lift the child out in one swift, sure motion.

The crowd downstairs—mostly elderly residents—breathed a collective sigh of relief.

As the tension ebbed, Camille finally came back to her senses. She picked up his jacket and bag and handed them back when he came down.

Breathless, he wiped the sweat from his brow. They stood so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. Her heart was pounding—she didn’t know if it was from the fear or simply because he was right there.

But he didn’t seem to recognize her. Still, as he walked away, he turned back, smiled, and said, “Thanks.”

The memory ended there—abrupt and vivid.

Now, ten years later, Oliver Bennett stood before her again.

Camille looked up at him, held his gaze for a moment, then asked her first question:

“Did you ever know I slipped five yuan into your backpack?”

---

4. A Shell Hidden in the Sea of Stars

Oliver Bennett frowned slightly, clearly unaware.

“I vaguely remember one time I was starving and found some coins in my bag,” he said with a small laugh, lost in the memory. “That was from you?”

Camille Moreau stirred the foam on her coffee lazily. “Yeah. A teacher told me it was wrong to make money off classmates. I had a sudden pang of conscience.”

Oliver laughed, warm and unrestrained.

They chatted for a long time after that, trading memories from high school. Lunch was a casual Western meal, right there in the café.

“Want to take a walk by the sea later?” Camille suggested.

Oliver didn’t say no.

Seabridge was a coastal city, its shoreline curving like a ribbon along one side. As a teenager, Camille’s favorite thing had been hopping on the sightseeing bus to the beach.

It was here, in this quiet little bay, that she and Oliver had once again crossed paths.

Today, a thin veil of clouds floated across the sky. The sun, dimmed, looked like a pale smudge on a giant screen. Camille raised a hand to shield her eyes and saw him—hair tousled by the sea breeze, gaze fixed on the distant horizon, face calm and unreadable.

She remembered.

That time, she had wandered a little too far in her search for seashells and spotted him sitting alone on the rocks, away from the crowd.

He looked at the box of shells in her arms and said coolly, “They all look the same. What’s the point?”

She shook her head, completely serious. “There are no two shells exactly alike in the whole world.”

He almost smiled.

“And when you’re out looking for shells,” she continued, “you’re always wondering if the next one will be prettier. That kind of hope makes you forget all your troubles—at least for a little while.”

To her surprise, Oliver Bennett joined her.

He picked up shells, one by one, and in the end gave them all to her.

She’d counted—they went shell-hunting eight times.

When summer ended, her mom almost threw away a whole sack full of them. Camille hadn’t minded, except for one—a pale violet shell. That one, she’d locked away in a tiny box, safe.

It was from their eighth visit to the beach. By then, they’d grown closer. Their conversations drifted far and wide.

Hands in his pockets, eyes on the sand, Oliver always looked casual, even distant. But somehow, the shells he found were always the best—unique and beautiful.

As he bent and straightened, he began to open up.

He told her his parents hadn’t scammed anyone—they’d simply owed money, and they were working hard to pay it back. Still, people judged him because of them. Twisted stories, cruel assumptions.

Camille felt her chest tighten. She didn’t know how to comfort him. She just kept repeating softly, “I think you’re good. I really do.”

He stood up and ruffled her short hair with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks, Camille Moreau.”

Then he placed the shell he’d just picked into her hand.

She looked down. It was a dreamy shade of lilac, like twilight brushed across a sky. Soft white streaks marked where the sea had kissed it clean.

It was the most beautiful shell she had ever seen.

But after that day, they never went to the beach together again.

She found out why soon enough—Seabridge High had made it into the inter-school football league, and Oliver, as one of the main players, was caught up in training every day.

Camille watched from the sidelines a few times, blending in with the crowd of girls.

One day, she saw him at his lowest.

A boy deliberately stomped on his old, worn-out cleats. The sole came nearly clean off.

Laughter exploded across the field.

Oliver stood there, hands on hips, staring down at the gaping mouth of his shoe. He didn’t lash out. He just looked… tired. Resigned. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, that cheap shoes fall apart when pushed hard enough.

He limped off to the side. A girl from his class handed him a Coke.

At the back of the crowd, Camille bit her lip and quietly turned away.

She went home, dug through her allowance and red envelope money, and bought him a new pair of shoes. She had secretly noted his size from the field.

Then she asked his grandfather, who often sat in the neighborhood sun, to give them to him—pretending they were from his parents.

Later, she saw him wearing them, racing across the field with his teammates, helping Seabridge High win the championship.

They held the trophy high, all of them laughing, glowing with pride.

Camille clapped until her hands stung.

That was the boy she liked—bold, brilliant, burning with youth.

And thanks to a game-winning goal, even the classmates who once avoided him began to laugh with him. The tension, the isolation—it all dissolved.

He was no longer alone at school.

Camille felt proud of the change, and a part of her wanted to stay close, to catch up to him. She even started trying to find out which university he hoped to attend…

Now, the waves rolled gently over her bare feet, cool and soft against her skin.

She turned back to him and asked, “Do you still have those red cleats?”

Oliver’s gaze finally pulled away from the horizon and landed on her face. He hesitated, about to answer—when his phone rang.

Camille looked down instinctively. The screen lit up too brightly to miss.

Sophie Allen.

Two simple words. Two sharp syllables.

Her heart sank.

Ten years had passed—and the name that still had the power to hurt her most… was still Sophie Allen.

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