Chapter 15: Much More Than a Chocolate Bar.

Hello!

I'm Charlie, nice to meet you.

Are you here to meet someone?

No? Me neither. I'm just a chocolate bar, after all.

But I know why you're here! You're looking for the latest chapter of Level Up, Felicia, aren't you?

Well, you're in luck! Felicia asked me to write a chapter about my past experiences so she could include it in her book. And guess what? Here it is!

Player: Charlie

Location: World 1, in a trash can

I lay there in the trash, surrounded by used cans and bottles—some still sticky with soda, others sporting mysterious, crusty stains that looked like a science experiment gone wrong. The smell was a pungent cocktail of spoiled leftovers, old pizza grease, and the unmistakable aroma of forgotten fast food fries. Above me, a squashed ketchup packet burst open like a crimson volcano, oozing its gooey contents onto a crumpled napkin. Somewhere nearby, a half-eaten sandwich lay abandoned, its lettuce wilted and soggy, a sad tribute to better days.

A rogue fly buzzed overhead, doing lazy loops like it owned the place. I considered asking it for company, but honestly, even flies weren’t great conversationalists. The whole scene was less “treasure trove” and more “dumpster diving disaster.” But hey, at least I wasn’t alone down here—there was plenty of grossness to keep me entertained.

My mind drifted back to the one who put me here — a woman. As beautiful as beautiful gets, like she’d just stepped out of a perfume commercial or a magazine cover, where even the sunlight seemed to blush when it hit her skin. We were a match made in heaven: she, a rich actor with a closet full of designer shoes I could only dream of, and me, a chocolate bar that regenerated every time I was eaten—basically the snack world’s version of a superhero.

She wore confidence like it was her favorite accessory, and I? Well, I was her secret weapon against hunger and bad moods. Together, we were unstoppable. She had the fame, the glam, and the paparazzi flashes; I had the sweet, sweet power of endless deliciousness. You could say we were the perfect pair—like peanut butter and jelly, but way cooler because, you know, I talked.

We were happy.

Until we weren’t.

Her fitness trainer told her to go on a diet — one that didn’t include chocolate bars. It was a tough choice for her: stay a movie star or keep eating sweets.

What choice did she make?

Well, I’m in a trash can. What do you think she chose?

I thought I had a chance. I mean, come on, I had a tasty look, a charming personality, and a cocoa content that could melt hearts.

But no.

Suddenly, kale was the new king. Almonds were getting more screen time than I was. There was green juice in the fridge. Green! Juice! She started saying things like "cleanse" and "gut biome" and “refined sugars are the enemy,” and every time she opened the pantry, I swear I saw her flinch like I was some kind of chocolatey ghost of bad decisions.

Then, one day, she didn’t even say goodbye. Just picked me up with salad-tossing hands, muttered something about “self-control,” and yeeted me straight into the trash like yesterday’s prop snack.

It was over.

She chose fame.

And I got dumped… right next to a leaking yogurt cup and an expired can of lentils.

Love is cruel.

I'm in a sad mound among half-squashed soda cans, greasy napkins, and a suspiciously sticky wrapper that might have once held a pickle. The trash can smelled like a swamp on a hot summer day—if swamps smelled like expired cheese and old gym socks. I tried to make the best of it, you know, mingling with the moldy bread crusts and the crustier pizza boxes, but it was tough.

I mean, sure, I’m magical and all, but even I don’t sparkle in garbage juice.

So here I am, the discarded hero of a tragic diet story, stuck in a trash can that smelled like a dumpster had a bad day. If heartbreak had a flavor, I was pretty sure it tasted like old banana peel and regret.

A tear slid down my face.

Okay, maybe more like a drop of melted chocolate rolling off a bump—but hey, emotions are emotions, right?

It was the kind of tear that screamed, “I’m sweet, but I’m also meltdown material.” As it slowly oozed down my wrapper, I imagined it was like a dramatic soap opera moment—if soap operas smelled like cocoa and sugar.

If I had eyes, they’d be all watery and sad, maybe with a tiny chocolate mustache forming beneath my “nose” from the melt. I tried to keep it together, but honestly, it’s hard when your whole life is basically a constant cycle of being eaten, reborn, and occasionally tossed out like yesterday’s leftovers.

Maybe one day, I thought, I’d be more than just a snack... maybe even a trophy. But for now, I was just a chocolate bar with feelings, melting in a trash can of despair.

It had been an hour since she tossed me in here.

An entire hour of staring at the same old crumpled pizza box, listening to the sad symphony of buzzing flies and the occasional squelch as something unidentifiable slid deeper into the pile. I tried to keep track of time by counting the number of gnats that passed by—roughly seventeen, but honestly, who’s counting when you’re a rejected chocolate bar in a trash heap?

I considered sending out an SOS—maybe write a tiny note and attach it to a rogue french fry—but alas, I don't have hands to write with.

Meanwhile, the smell was evolving. It started out as “old garbage,” but now it was heading dangerously into “scientific experiment gone wrong.” I swear I could hear the banana peel plotting world domination somewhere beneath me.

If this is what they call “rock bottom,” I was definitely hitting the bottom of the dumpster, too.

Suddenly, the world shook. The trash jiggled beneath me like a wobbly Jell-O mold at a kid’s birthday party. I started sinking deeper into the pile—like quicksand, but stickier and way less glamorous.

When out of nowhere, a cat jumped in.

Not just any cat. This was a stealthy, laser-focused feline ninja with eyes that glowed like tiny green flashlights in the dim trashcan abyss. Its whiskers twitched with the precision of a master hunter, and I swear I heard a tiny “mission accepted” soundtrack playing in my head.

Before I could even say “Help!,” the cat’s jaws clamped around me like I was the last leftover snack at a midnight feast.

“Aaaaaah!” I screamed. Cats are, by far, my worst enemy. “I’m poison for cats!”

Seriously, I’m like the kryptonite of the feline world—chocolate is toxic to them!

The cat didn’t care. It picked me up in its mouth like I was some sort of shiny, chocolatey trophy, then leapt out of the trash can with the grace of a feline ninja on a mission.

I dangled there, swaying like a piñata in a gentle breeze, as it trotted off to who-knows-where—probably some secret lair where cats plot world domination and hoard all the best snacks.

I tried to get its attention. “Hey! I’m not a chew toy!” But all I got was a flick of the tail and a confident meow that clearly said, “You’re mine now, sweet treat.”

Well, at least if I’m going to be kidnapped by a cat, I’m getting a free ride. Too bad the destination was definitely not a five-star chocolate lounge.

Was this the end? Was the cat going to eat me and then realize, when I reappeared, that he could profit off me?

I imagined the feline’s face going from satisfied snacker to entrepreneurial genius in a split second. “Wait a minute… if this chocolate keeps coming back bigger every time I eat it, I could start the world’s first infinite snack supply!”

He’d set up a tiny cat-sized factory, maybe recruit some mice for assembly line work, and suddenly become the richest cat in the neighborhood—king of the kibble and chocolate empire.

But then I remembered: cats are notoriously bad at math and even worse at business. So, more likely, he’d just swallow me again and promptly forget why I’m special.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder—if this is how the rest of my life would be, at least I might inspire a new wave of entrepreneurial cats. Maybe “Kitty’s Chocolate Factory” will be the next big thing.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'll be the reason many cats go to the hospital. Again, choculate is very poisonous to them.

“Kitten Whiskers! What are you holding?!”

My doom-spiraling was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched voice that sounded like a fire alarm mixed with sugar-rush energy.

A little girl—maybe eight years old, wearing mismatched socks, a pair of goggles, and carrying a bright pink purse that looked way too big for her—came sprinting toward the cat with the determination of a tiny, pint-sized superhero on a mission.

She swooped in like a chocolate-saving knight and plucked me right out of the cat’s mouth before I could even say “Rescue me!”

“Chocolate?” she said, eyes wide with wonder. Then—without missing a beat—she swallowed me whole.

This was it. The moment I live for. My reason for living. My sweet, chewy purpose.

A white light washed over my vision like someone cranked up the brightness setting on life. I could feel it—the surge. The mystical chocolate energy that made me whole again… and slightly bigger.

When the light faded, I found myself once again in her hand — slightly bigger this time. A little wider in the middle. A touch taller. Basically the chocolate version of hitting the gym for five seconds and gaining a solid bicep.

Back in the world. Ready for whatever came next.

The girl was astonished.

Her jaw dropped so far I was worried it might hit her sneakers. She held me up like a scientist discovering a new species. If I had eyebrows, I would’ve raised them.

“You… came back,” she whispered, poking me gently like I might explode—or turn into a marshmallow. “And you’re bigger! Like a chocolate balloon with confidence!”

She spun around, purse flapping wildly, and yelled to the sky, “I HAVE A MAGIC CANDY BAR!” like she’d just won the lottery and wanted the birds to know.

Then she turned to the cat, who was licking its paw and giving me a side-eye like "I was literally just holding that snack in my mouth."

“You saw that, right?” she asked the cat. The cat blinked slowly, in the way cats do when they’re pretending they’re not impressed but are secretly thinking, “Okay, that was kinda cool.”

She looked back at me, eyes sparkling. “You’re my destiny.”

“Actually, I’m chocolate,” I corrected. “But I’ll accept ‘destiny’ if it comes with snacks and minimal chewing.”

Before I could answer, she popped me into her mouth again with the enthusiasm of a kid testing if lightning really does strike twice. GULP.

And once more, I reappeared—slightly bigger, a bit warmer, and frankly, getting closer to needing my own zip code.

Her eyes went wide—like, saucer-sized wide. The cat screeched in horror and launched itself into the air with a dramatic flair only a startled house cat could achieve, then vanished behind a couch, probably to start writing a conspiracy blog about me.

“THIS. IS. AMAZING,” she shouted, hoisting me above her head like I was a legendary artifact she just pulled from an ancient temple. “I HAVE A RE-SPAWNING SNACK!”

“Yes,” I explained. “No matter how many times you eat me, I’ll always come back—bigger than the last time.”

“You talk, too?”

“You bet! I can crawl, too.”

The girl blinked. “Do you get bigger every time you are eaten?”

“Yep,” I replied. “One day I’ll be the size of a sofa. Maybe even a minivan. The dream is galaxy-sized, but I’ll start with being as big as your finger.”

“How is this even possible?”

“I come from a magical world.”

“A magical world?” The girl tilted her head.

She squinted at me as if trying to x-ray my nougat-filled soul. I could see the gears turning in her head—very colorful, candy-coated gears, probably powered by bubblegum and chaos.

“Tell me everything,” she said, eyes gleaming. “And if I eat you again while you’re talking, it’s only because I’m emotionally overwhelmed.”

“Well,” I said, “but it’s rather boring, if you ask me. I like it here, where talking inanimate objects are actually unique. And right now, I'll be more then happy to stay with you.”

“Wow!” The kid’s eyes went wide. “I have an endless supply of chocolate!”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Her pupils practically turned into candy swirls. She clutched me with both hands, as if I were the last slice of cake at a birthday party full of eight-year-olds.

“My goal in life is to be eaten again and again," I explained, "So I can grow bigger and bigger. One day, I’ll be the biggest person in the galaxy! But this has to stay a secret. You can keep a secret, right?”

She paused. Her eyes darted to the left, then to the right, then to the cat—who was currently trying to sit inside a cereal box that was clearly too small for its ambitions.

“Nope!” The girl chirped. “I’m a genius who can solve anything—except keeping my lips sealed.”

“Then why did I tell you any of this?” I muttered to myself.

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I didn’t do anything but listen... and eat your delicious chocolate.”

“Well... could you try to keep it a secret?”

“Hmmm...” She thought for a second. “Okay!”

I sighed. I guess eight-year-olds can be a little single-minded sometimes.

She immediately pulled a glitter pen from her backpack and began scribbling in a notebook titled "Top Secret Magic Candy Files" with stars drawn on the cover and half a peanut butter smear across the front.

“Step one,” she mumbled while writing, “find a safe place to store self-regenerating snack. Step two: test what happens if you dip it in peanut butter. Step three: see if it can be trained to do tricks.”

“Hey, I’m standing right here.”

“Well, sort of standing,” she said. “More like resting in a state of eternal dessert readiness.”

“That’s accurate but still insulting.”

“I’m just brainstorming,” she said, tapping her pen to her chin, which somehow resulted in a jelly stain on her nose. “This could be the biggest discovery since my dad found out you can toast Pop-Tarts twice.”

"Maybe I'll just be your edible friend, how's that?"

"Hmmm." She thought for a moment and shrugged. "Okay! I'm Luna!"

“Charlie,” I said.

“Who’s Charlie?”

“Me.”

“Oh. Well, that’s kind of boring, isn’t it? I was hoping for Mr. Chocolate.”

“I wish I had that name too... but sadly, fate decided otherwise.”

She scrunched up her nose, then tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Mr. Chocolate sounds like someone who wears a cape and fights candy crime.”

“Exactly. I was hoping to be the superhero of sweets.”

“Maybe you could be Chocolate Man. Or Captain Cocoa.”

“Captain Cocoa... has a nice ring to it.”

“Or The Choco Avenger!” She struck a dramatic pose, nearly knocking over a glass of orange juice.

“Careful, Luna! We can’t have you spilling juice before the sequel.”

She giggled. “Okay, Mr. Charlie. But if you ever grow big enough to wear a cape, I’ll make sure it’s made of marshmallows.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

And with that, my destiny as a chocolate hero was sealed — or maybe just melted, but definitely heroic.

“Come with me!” she said, dropping me into her purse. “I’m keeping you.”

I barely had time to brace myself before I was tossed into what smelled like a combination of gum wrappers, old pennies, and—somehow—pineapple. The purse was a cramped little cave, but hey, a chocolate bar’s gotta adapt.

She took me back to her house—a small, yellow, boxy thing that looked like it had been painted by someone who gave up halfway through.

As she walked through the front door, she called out, “Mom! Dad! I’m home!”

No dramatic entrance music or applause, just the usual echoes of a normal household.

She dashed to her room, which was a colorful explosion of stuffed animals, posters, and half-finished art projects. She jumped onto her bed with the grace of a superhero landing and promptly ate me again.

Moments later, I reappeared right back in her hands, slightly bigger and definitely more heroic—or at least that’s what I tried to convince myself.

An adult man walked in. I figured he must be Luna’s father—tall, serious, with the kind of face that says, “I’ve dealt with tantrums, and I’m not impressed.”

“Good,” he said. “You’re back. We need to take you to the doctor.”

“Why?” she asked, crossing her arms and giving a suspicious squint that said, “This better not be one of those boring grown-up things.”

“You’ve been throwing up a lot lately, and your stomach hurts all the time.”

“So?” she replied, throwing her head back with the confidence of a kid who’s clearly not buying it. “I don’t think that means I have to see a doctor.”

“Well, sadly, I disagree,” he said, arms folding like an immovable wall.

She huffed but grabbed her backpack, the silent surrender of a champion who knows this battle isn’t hers to win.

“I’ll go start the engine,” he said, already heading toward the door with the practiced stride of someone who’s done this dance a thousand times. “Meet me outside and I’ll take you.”

Luna turned to me with a mischievous grin. “See you later, pumpkin eater.”

“I can’t eat anything,” I reminded her, my voice dripping with a mix of frustration and chocolatey resignation. "Including pumpkins."

“It’s an expression,” she said, waving a hand as if that explained everything.

“Well, I express that I’m a chocolate bar to be eaten, not to eat,” I shot back, because someone had to be the responsible one around here.

She just laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she skipped out of the room, leaving me alone with my existential snack crisis.

Luna came back to her room after a few hours.

“Here! Here!” the girl said excitedly, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as if she’d just discovered buried treasure.

She pulled out a crinkly, shiny wrapper that caught the light and crinkled loudly with every movement.

“Look at this!”

“It’s a wrapper?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. It looked pretty ordinary—just a piece of foil and paper—but she was acting as if she’d unveiled a secret weapon.

“Not just any wrapper,” she said with a sly grin, holding it up like it was a magic artifact. “Wait till you see what it can do!”

She grabbed a regular chocolate bar—the kind that doesn’t talk, doesn’t wiggle, and certainly doesn’t complain—and slipped it inside. Then, she carefully pressed along the seam where the wrapper had been opened, smoothing it down with the precision of a surgeon trying to stitch up a very thin, very crinkly wound. When she held it up again, it looked absolutely flawless, as if the wrapper had never been disturbed since the factory packed it.

“See my new invention? No one can tell it was ever opened!” she declared proudly, grinning like she’d just invented chocolate itself.

“Okay…” I said, half impressed, half skeptical.

She carefully tucked me into the wrapper and sealed it shut with a flourish, as if she’d just wrapped a priceless artifact instead of a regenerating chocolate bar with a habit of talking back.

“That means,” she began, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I can take you to school, eat you, and then once you regenerate, I just put you back in the wrapper. Everyone will think you’re just a new chocolate bar. Because everybody knows that making a wrapper look unopened again is really hard.”

She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “This way, no one will suspect you’re magical at all!”

“Oh, wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Thank you. And you made this yourself, with no magic?”

“Yep! Told you I was a genius, didn’t I?” she said, puffing out her chest. “I also made a teleportation device and sold it to the government. All without magic!”

I raised an eyebrow. (Theotorically) “You’re saying you have a teleportation device and a magically regenerating chocolate bar? That sounds like the start of a very weird superhero origin story.”

She shrugged, grinning. “Who says superheroes need capes? I prefer purses and chocolate wrappers.”

Luna continued to show me some of her inventions—each one more bizarre than the last. There was a toaster that doubled as a hat, a robot that only danced awkwardly, and a "self-cleaning" sock that somehow made things messier. Afterward, she decided to teach me chess. I didn’t understand any of it, honestly—but Luna looked thrilled, even though her moves suggested she was just making things up as she went along. Her serious face, paired with her complete confusion, made the whole game feel like a comedy show.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said suddenly, springing up with the urgency of someone chasing an ice cream truck.

She darted out the door so fast, I almost thought she was auditioning for a superhero movie. Her footsteps echoed down the hall, pounding with the intensity of a stampede—presumably toward the restroom.

Then came the unmistakable, not-so-glamorous soundtrack: the glorious symphony of vomiting.

A few minutes later, she came running back, cheeks still a bit rosy and hair slightly tousled as if she’d just battled a tornado. Her eyes were wide, sparkling with a mix of triumph and mischief, as if she’d just survived a wild adventure and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.

She reached her hand toward me.

“Wait! Wait,” I said. “You just threw up from eating too much chocolate. You don’t want to eat more.”

“Don’t worry,” she said brightly, grinning as if she just invented a brand-new game. “I’m not hungry. I just want to take you on an adventure!”

She scooped me up like I was a tiny, precious treasure—well, a treasure with a wrapper.

“This,” she said, gesturing toward a building, “is my favorite movie theater. I go here every week!”

“Every week?” I asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Yep!” She nodded with pride, as if she held the secret to eternal happiness.

She carried me inside, practically sprinting through the front doors as if the popcorn might run out any second.

“Let me show you around!” she announced, bursting with enthusiasm.

I took in the scene with my own eyes. The place was... very run-down. Leaks dripped steadily from the ceiling, forming puddles that threatened to swallow an unsuspecting shoe whole. Grime coated the floors in a stubborn, sticky layer that made every step feel like wading through ancient syrup. Mold crawled across the walls, spreading in wild patterns where no mold had any business setting up camp—almost as if it were auditioning for a horror movie role. Dust bunnies gathered in corners, throwing what looked suspiciously like tiny mold parties, and the faint smell of forgotten popcorn hung in the air, mixing with something suspiciously like regret.

“That’s the candy place,” she said, pointing proudly to a little stand packed with colorful sweets. The stand was a chaotic explosion of wrappers, jars brimming with neon-colored gummies, and lollipops standing tall like sugary soldiers. Some candies looked so sticky they could trap a fly for days, while others gleamed under the flickering lights as if daring you to take a bite. A small bell perched on the counter jingled with every customer—though on this day, the only jingling was from Luna’s excitement and the occasional rumble of the old cash register, which sounded like it was one coin away from retirement.

“My mom and dad let me pick out a candy for every movie.” Luna pointed to another chaotic corner where wrappers and sticky spots told tales of countless sweet adventures. “I’ve even befriended the owners, so all of it’s free!” She beamed with pride, as if she had just revealed the secret to eternal happiness or the recipe for invisible chocolate.

She pointed to a trash can that looked more like a swamp than a container. “And that is a treasure chest!” she announced with the enthusiasm of a pirate unveiling gold.

I peered inside and spotted a crusty sandwich, a suspiciously squished soda can, and something unidentifiable that was definitely not treasure.

“I hate to beg to differ…” I muttered, “But unless your treasure is mold and mystery smells, I think this chest is cursed.”

“The trash only gets picked up once a month,” she explained with a proud grin. “But before George comes to collect it, he saves it behind the counter so I can take stuff home!”

I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds extremely dangerous, Luna.”

She just shrugged. “Adventure comes with risks!”

“And that!” she said, waving dramatically, “That’s George.”

Behind the counter stood a skinny teenager who looked like he survived on pizza crusts and energy drinks. He gave a small wave that was more of a half-hearted flick of the fingers.

“Here to watch a movie?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Here to watch a movie?” he asked, leaning over the counter with the enthusiasm of a sloth on a slow Monday.

“Yep!” Luna answered cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with excitement that could power a small city.

“Where are your parents?” he asked, raising an eyebrow so high it nearly escaped his forehead. “Don’t they need to approve the movie first?”

Luna paused, her confident grin faltering for just a second. “Actually, now that you mention it, George… I don’t think we’re here to watch a movie.”

She turned to me with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement reserved for secret plans and sugar rushes. “Maybe we can have a backyard picnic instead!” she announced, as if discovering the greatest idea since chocolate bars that regenerate.

I blinked, considering the options. A backyard picnic sounded peaceful enough — no sticky floors, no mystery smells, and definitely no suspicious teenagers watching me like I’m a science experiment.

She gently set me down on a soft, slightly squished blanket spread over the grass, which smelled faintly of freshly cut lawn and a hint of… mystery.

“This is a picnic,” she declared with the enthusiasm of a queen unveiling her royal feast.

Around us, ants marched in single file, clearly unimpressed by the grand event unfolding above them. A nearby butterfly fluttered lazily, as if judging our lack of sophistication.

I glanced up at Luna, who was beaming, clearly proud of this outdoor dining extravaganza.

She pulled out a sandwich, its bread slightly squished but still holding together like a champion. “My parents say that even though sweets are delicious, it’s important to eat other stuff too.” She took a big, enthusiastic bite, crumbs falling everywhere as if the sandwich had declared war on her shirt.

Then she tore off a tiny piece and held it out with a hopeful smile. “Do you want some?”

“No thanks. I can’t eat.”

She tapped her chin and nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, well… maybe we can imagine that you can.” She grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let’s also imagine that you’re a rinosaurous. That would be fun.”

I squinted up at her, trying to picture myself as a dinosaur with an awkward name, wondering if a rinosaurous preferred chocolate or sandwiches for its diet.

Luna’s mom walked outside into the backyard, balancing a laundry basket in one arm and a half-drunk iced coffee in the other. A sock dangled from the basket’s edge, flapping in the breeze like a tiny white flag of surrender.

“Hey, Luna,” she said, her voice a blend of mom-tone and mild confusion at the makeshift picnic situation unfolding on the lawn.

She paused when she noticed the half-unwrapped sandwich, the crumb trail leading to Luna’s lap, and the chocolate bar (me) sitting upright on the blanket as if this were all completely normal.

“Hey!” Luna called back, waving one hand enthusiastically while the other clutched the soggy sandwich.

“Remember when you went to see the doctor?” her mom asked, raising an eyebrow as if expecting a perfectly clear answer.

“Umm… I think so. That was earlier today, right?” Luna replied, tilting her head and squinting at the sky as if the sun might jog her memory.

“Yes, that visit,” her mom said, crossing her arms and giving a look that said, You’re not fooling anyone.

“No, I don’t remember that,” Luna declared with full confidence, as if amnesia had suddenly become her superpower.

Her mom smiled, the kind of smile that meant serious stuff was coming next. “Well, all joking aside,” she said, “the test results came in.”

Luna’s eyes widened. “And… am I sick?”

“No,” her mom replied, shaking her head. “You’re just allergic.”

“Allergic?” Luna echoed, like the word sounded foreign and suspicious.

“Yes, to chocolate.”

Luna paused dramatically, clutching her sandwich like it was a lifeline. “Can I have a moment to process this?”

“Sure,” her mom said, stepping back with a smirk, probably enjoying the show.

After her mom walked away, Luna turned to me with a face that looked like she’d just lost her best friend and her favorite ice cream all in one day.

“Oh no! I won’t be able to eat you anymore.”

“Well, that’s okay,” I said, trying to sound optimistic but also resigned. “It was fun while it lasted. When you throw me in the trash, I’m sure some other weird creature will pick me up.”

She sighed, then gently placed me in her purse and zipped it shut.

Suddenly, total silence. No light, no movement, just the muffled sound of Luna’s footsteps fading into the distance. I couldn’t hear anything for hours—except maybe the faint rumble of her tummy protesting the lack of chocolate.

I heard a zipping sound—sharp and sudden, like the grand reveal of a magician’s trick. Luna’s hand reached in, pulling me out of the dark depths of her purse.

“Don’t worry,” she said, grinning with all the confidence of a kid about to break a very important rule. “I’ll make sure to give you a good life.”

She swung open the car door and stepped out, dragging me along. The building before us was a movie theater—bright lights, flashing signs, and the unmistakable smell of buttery popcorn mixed with something suspiciously like old carpet.

“This is where the magic happens,” Luna declared, as if I hadn’t just survived a trash can and a cat. I wondered if my magical regeneration counted for extra movie snacks.

She marched into the movie theater, dragging her parents behind her as if they were part of the package deal. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and her grip on md tightened as if I were the key to some secret treasure. The neon lights flickered overhead, casting wild shadows on the peeling wallpaper and sticky floors that told stories of countless popcorn spills and forgotten soda stains.

Her mom glanced around nervously, probably calculating the odds of the seats still being sticky. Her dad muttered something about the “good old days” when theaters didn’t smell like a mix of butter, sweat, and mystery. But Luna? She didn’t care. She was ready for an adventure, and I was along for the ride.

“Okay, Luna, you can pick out a candy.” Her mom said.

She darted over to the candy stand with the energy of someone on a sugar-fueled mission. The stand was a chaotic explosion of colors—bright reds, neon greens, and yellows screaming for attention like overenthusiastic carnival barkers. Luna pulled out her special wrapper, carefully slid me inside, then expertly hid me behind a tall, suspiciously shiny chocolate bar that seemed to be guarding the candy fortress.

With a proud grin, she glanced around as if she had just pulled off the greatest magic trick in history. Meanwhile, I settled into my new hiding spot, hoping no one would notice the slightly off-kilter wrapper that might just give away my secret.

“Here.” Luna said, holding out the wrapped chocolate bar with a hopeful smile.

“Luna, what are you doing?” I asked, eyeing the suspiciously perfect wrapper.

“I’m giving you a chance to be eaten again,” she declared, sounding like she was launching me into a grand adventure.

“Yeah, but then I’ll just end up in the trash,” I replied, already dreading the trash can’s familiar embrace—complete with its delightful mix of old pizza boxes, suspiciously sticky soda spills, and the occasional lost sock that probably smells worse than it looks.

“No, you won’t. After you get eaten and regenerate, you can crawl right back into the wrapper and come back here. And don’t worry—I’m at the movies almost every week. If you ever slip up and end up in the trash, I’ll swoop in like a chocolate bar superhero, rescue you, and tuck you safely back inside.”

“Luna, I’m honored,” I said, already picturing my dramatic trash-can escape.

“Oh, don’t mention it. And hey! I’ll even sneak into this movie theater just to see you. We’ll hang out, have tons of adventures, and maybe start a chocolate bar fan club. Sounds fun?”

“Yes.” I was astonished. Nobody had ever seen me as more than just a tasty treat—a simple chocolate bar. Usually, I’m just something to be unwrapped, devoured, and tossed aside without a second thought.

“Why?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. How could this not be a cruel joke? “You can’t even eat me anymore. You’re allergic.”

She smiled, eyes twinkling as if she’d just revealed a secret treasure map. “Because you’re much more than a chocolate bar.”