Moth girl

You’re settling into bed, the room dim except for the faint glow of your bedside clock. The blankets are warm, heavy, familiar. You shift, exhale, and let your eyes drift half‑closed. Then you feel it — the slightest rustle near your legs. Not the kind that comes from turning over, but something deliberate. Something moving. You freeze for a moment, listening. Another faint shuffle brushes against your thigh, soft like fabric sliding over fur.

You lift the blanket slowly.

Two glowing red eyes stare up at you from your lap.

She’s sitting there like she’s been hiding for hours. hands on your thighs — the small moth girl, wrapped in her own shadowy fluff, ears perked and looking up at you with no hostility, but rather child life curiosity. Her fur is ruffled from squeezing under the blanket, and her oversized eyes reflect the dim light in a way that makes her look both startled and intensely curious. She looked like nothing you've ever seen, but in a good way. As if a moth merged with a girl.

She doesn’t move at first. Her antennae twitches as she just watches you, as if waiting to see whether you’ll react with fear or something else entirely. The warmth of her tiny weight settles across your legs, and the rustling stops. She blinks once, slow and deliberate, like a creature deciding you’re safe enough to stay near.