"Normal"
Sometimes, just sometimes, Lune wonders what it means to be normal.
She isn't even sure what it means to be normal, but she supposes it has something to do with being rational and logical and—well, just normal. When she lies in bed at night, in the crossroads between waking and sleeping, she ponders what her life would be like if she only acted like everyone around her. Would she be more accepted? Would everyone be open to the idea of having her as a friend? They are thoughts she keeps to herself, and whenever she thinks such things she decides that they're just not worth thinking about and turns over and drifts off to sleep, and is not bothered by them in the least in the morning. She isn't like everyone else, and she's content to be so—she doesn't like following the crowd anyway.
But it still bothers her sometimes, and she, in turn, is bothered by it.
After all, was it not her own mother and father who told her that she should be her own person? "Be true to yourself, Luna," her mother would say, ruffling her hair. "It's you who has to live in your own skin—not them."
So Luna makes herself happy, even if it isn't normal to walk alone in the halls and talk to paintings and imagine friends by her side. Everyone avoids her, calling her 'Loony' behind her back. She merely continues on her way, unbothered by everyone else. Their opinions don't matter. She's happy enough in her own world, and she likes to think that due to this she is unhindered by the physical realm. She sees. Sees things no one else does being tied down in the physical world.
She sees the ghosts of the past, playing in the hallways; she can hear the echoes of forgotten feet as long-dead students make their way to classes. She sometimes fancies she sees wet handprints on the bathroom walls where others braced themselves after washing that disappear after she notices them. Voices whisper in her ears in empty corridors, remnants of a rowdy group that laughed a long time ago.
These are her companions, and although they are lonely company, she decides they are better than the living. They, after all, don't call her names, and they don't shun her; they do not stab her in the back, and do not take her for granted. With them, she laughs and talks and sometimes cries, and if she listens hard enough she can hear her mother talking to her, just out of sight but there.
She is quiet and keeps to herself, and if her teachers notice her it is only because of how utterly ghost-like she is. She wanders to and fro at the oddest times, sometimes simply leaving during a class because she cannot stay in the classroom one more minute. She feels restless and irritable at those moments, until she hears them again, and if there is someone who laughs and says she practically lives in the halls, she merely smiles and continues on her way. She does not need the living. She does not even need the physical. She is Luna, plain and simple, and she damns anyone to try and tell her otherwise.
But still, there are times she wonders what that word means.
Normal.