**i. shanghai, 3:42 a.m.**

the boy on the rooftop has a cigarette between his fingers, but he doesn’t smoke. he just likes the way it burns down to the filter, slow and ruinous, the way everything else in his life is, except faster. the moon hangs above him, fat and bright, like it knows something he doesn’t. he remembers learning once that it’s just a rock catching sunlight, a thief of brightness, not its own. he wonders if people can be like that, too. wonders if he is. below him, the city hums, machines and neon and voices slurring together like a drunk man’s prayer. he looks up again and exhales—no smoke, just breath. the moon doesn’t blink. **liar.**

**ii. istanbul, 8:42 p.m.**

the woman stands by the bosphorus, a cheap beer sweating in her hand. she watches the moon spill its reflection over the water, a silver wound stretching across the waves. she thinks about how he used to say her eyes were like that—“moonstruck,” he had called them, right before leaving. she doesn’t believe in omens, but she hasn’t looked in a mirror since. the water moves, restless. the city behind her is alive, but she feels like a ghost. she takes a sip of beer. it tastes like nothing. the moon stays, patient, watching. **liar.**

**iii. buenos aires, 3:42 p.m.**

the old man sits on a bench, the afternoon heat sticking to his skin. the moon is visible, pale against the sky, as if it’s lost. his wife used to say that meant bad luck, but he doesn’t believe in that. luck is a myth, just like god, just like the idea that love lasts. he wipes sweat from his brow, watches children chase pigeons across the plaza. the moon is there even in daylight, pretending it belongs. he understands that. some things stay even when they shouldn’t. **liar.**

and yet—

they all keep looking.