This is me wanting.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
My breath shakes when I stop typing.
I set the pad down gently, like it’s something fragile that might break—or worse, something dangerous that might not.
There’s no one here but me.
But I still feel watched.
Not in a sinister way.
Just... aware.
Like I’ve cracked open something and the station itself is holding its breath to see what spills out.
Later, I feel him approach before I actually see him. He comes in quietly. Healwaysdoes.
No footsteps. No announcement. Just presence.
He doesn’t ask about the journal in my lap, and I don’t offer a reason. The glow of the pad dims when he enters, and I swipe the log away before the words can stare back at me. The screen goes blank. My thoughts do not.
I don’t say hi.
He doesn’t either.
This is our rhythm now—tightrope silence, interrupted only when one of us slips.
The next test is stupid.
Petty, even.
But I do it anyway.
I tuck a data packet—unauthorized, encrypted, and very obviously tagged with the wrong clearance—half-exposed beneath the edge of my ration tray. He’ll see it. Hehasto. I want to know what happens next.
His gaze skims it once.
Then moves on.
No questions.
No confrontation.
No sudden reach for his wrist comm.
I blink.
What?
Later, I hover near the system node on the wall—restricted access, blinking red, very off-limits. I don’t even touch it. I just stare like I might.
He’s three feet behind me.
I don’t hear him move. I only feel the air shift.
“You don’t have access,” he says, low.
