The Luna Who Loved Twice

Things were weird. Again.

Regina tried to act normal. Smile when he looked. Laugh when he joked. Pretend she didn't notice how his texts came later and later, how their eye contact grew shorter, colder.

Connor was still Connor. But something had shifted.

He didn't tease her the same way.

He didn't linger anymore when they brushed shoulders in the hallway.

And sometimes, when she spoke, he looked at her like he was… trying to remember her.

Some days, he was sweet. Like before.

Other days, he was a storm in denim—loud, fast, and impossible to read.

It all came to a head one cloudy Thursday.

She found him sitting on the edge of the fountain outside the library, scribbling into a notebook. She hesitated, but then walked over and said lightly, "Hey. Need help with the film worksheet?"

Connor didn't even look up.

"Regina," he muttered, "not everything's about you. Stop hovering."

The words hit her like ice water.

She blinked. "I—was just asking…"

He slammed his notebook shut, stuffed it into his backpack, and walked off without another word.

She stood there, alone with the splash of the fountain and a thousand unspoken things.

That night, she scrolled through old photos on her phone—ones where he was smiling beside her, making silly faces, holding her pinky under the table. She didn't know which version of him to believe anymore.

The next day, she cut through the back of the science building on her way to class.

It was quiet—too quiet for midday.

She almost didn't see him, hunched on the steps, hoodie pulled halfway down, head bowed like he was trying to disappear.

Something about the moment made her pause.

There was something so small about him like that. So unlike the confident, smart-ass Connor she'd fallen for.

She took a cautious step closer—then another.

Just as she was about to call his name, he reached up to push his sleeve back.

That's when she saw it.

Not skin. Not the tan forearm she knew.

But dark strands—short, coarse, almost like…

Her lungs stopped working.

It was fur.

It shimmered under the sunlight, just for a moment, before he yanked the sleeve back down.

Her heartbeat was a drum.

She stumbled back, barely catching herself, and ran—her boots thudding on the pavement, her breath coming too fast, too sharp.

That night, Regina didn't cry.

She just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, arms folded over her chest like armor.

This wasn't about mood swings.

This wasn't about him being complicated.

This wasn't about Mandy.

This was something else.

Something terrifying.

And the worst part?

She still missed him.

Missed the version of him that walked her home.

Missed the one who once left a croissant on her desk because she skipped breakfast.

Missed the one who whispered her name like it meant something.

She pulled the covers tighter and whispered into the dark:

"I miss the old you. The one who held my hand like it meant something.

The one who didn't make me afraid."

Then, barely audible: "Who are you really, Connor Tsai?"