Half me and half...

No one ever told me that more than one world exists.

I don't think anyone else knows.

As a child, I believed that going to sleep was like opening a door and stepping into a garden—a garden where other people lived, in different kinds of houses, in a different kind of realm, wearing different kinds of clothes. A place where you had another family, another life.

For a while, I thought that was the case for everyone.

No, no one ever told me that falling asleep isn't a path to another world for everyone. No one ever explained why I was the only one who could pass between worlds just by closing my eyes or why it happened to me. Little did I know, until much later, that I lived in two entirely different worlds.

Although I realized very early on that it was dangerous to mention to anyone that I was crossing into a place no one else could actually see, it took a while for it to sink in. If you talk about things that other people can't see, people start to react strangely, and soon you find yourself standing in front of a stranger in a white coat, with a pleasant smile, who is terribly eager to ask you even stranger questions in an overly sweet tone:

"Where are these people you see, little Luna? Can you show them to me?"

"In Aethyris. I live with my parents in the capital of the Ether Kingdom," I replied proudly, like any child who has just learned how to correctly recite their address.

"Ether Kingdom, you say. Do you live in a castle?"

"Nooo, that's where the king lives. We live in a manor outside the capital; my father is a duke—the general of the Kingdom's army.... Oh! But we can see the king's castle from the library's east balcony. It's on a high, high cliff."

The man in the white coat looked at me politely, but I knew such faces well—there was more beneath the surface than he showed. However, he was the first person who didn't seem upset when I talked about my life on the other side. He asked polite questions too, so I couldn't help but answer. I told him everything.

The questions continued in the same manner:

"Can I see this place or meet your other parents, for instance?"

"Well, of course not. Only I can go there, and they can't come here, just like you can't go there. Don't you go to your own parents when you go to sleep?"

The man's face, trying to maintain its neutral air, took on an expression of superiority. It lit up subtly, as if he had discovered something wonderful and somewhat amusing.

"You see these people when you sleep?"

"Of course, where else?" I asked, confused.

"Only when you're asleep?"

I began to lose patience. This man seemed slow to me, but I answered calmly:

"Yes."

"Dreams can feel so real sometimes, can't they? They often reflect things that are important to us or that we think about a lot. It sounds like your father is someone very special to you. Maybe your dreams are helping you imagine spending time with him. Would you like to tell me more about him?"

I didn't ask what dreams were. This happened when I was only seven, but from that moment, I knew—though I don't know how—that the man in front of me wasn't referring to my father, the Duke from Ether, but to the father my mother from Timeless City never spoke about, whose name I didn't even know.

I also realized that everyone else in this world, full of devices with glowing screens that sometimes could give you everything with just a touch of a finger, didn't go anywhere when they slept.

I couldn't imagine what else they did in bed for so many hours, but it was clear they didn't open any doors to another realm, to another family, and it bothered them to hear that someone else did. It bothered them very much.

Doubted by so many, I often wondered if there wasn't something wrong with me. But since I couldn't find any answers, I stopped guessing and focused on living one world at a time.

That was also when I realized why my mother, Ira—who was waiting outside in the overly bright hallway with walls covered in cartoon collages—had brought me to that doctor and why she would lose her temper whenever I talked about people or events from Aethyris.

I still remember the painful lump in my throat at that time. Looking at that "well-meaning" man in white, I decided that all his questions were clear signs of everything I needed to keep hidden.

My language: We don't speak Old English here; we speak modern English. Only on TV do we still hear the old one, in the old-time movies.

My customs: I don't have to bow when I meet someone. I don't use terms like "my lady" or "my lord," nor do I introduce myself as "Lady Luna Whitemist." Here, I'm called Luna Devland—as my mother repeated to me over and over again, yelling so loudly I wondered how she could still be breathing at the same time—that I am no daughter of any Whitemist.

"Cut that crap! I don't know where you get it from, but don't you ever open your mouth and say something other than your real name! Devland. DEVLAND."

I did.

Here, in the modern world, I am Luna Devland. But they couldn't take away the fact that there, I was and always would be Luna Whitemist.

I had to learn the hard way that nothing from here can be told there, and vice versa. People expect to hear only what is familiar and acceptable, within their normal boundaries. People are hateful. People are ruthless when others are different.

Having plenty of other things to worry about that were already causing me enough trouble, at least that was one thing I could keep away from them: the other side.

Eventually, it became clear to me that if I didn't talk about it, no one would ever know anything about it.

So, back then, I swallowed my tears, nodded in front of the doctor, and said, "Yes, of course, they're only dreams." His satisfied smile clarified forever what they all wanted to hear.

Since then, I decided to learn how to keep things from the two worlds separate.

I was so alone. Always alone.

Ironically, the only human inhabiting two distinct realms had no one to confide in.

Time passed, and I grew up keeping the secret. Just for myself.