“Yes?”
“How long until we reach... anything?”
A pause. Static crackles.
“Alliance outpost in four hours, seventeen minutes, and nine seconds. Current trajectory is optimal. Oxygen reserves at 98%. Hull integrity at 91%.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Perfect. Spectacular.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly: “Isolde.”
“Yeah?”
“You are not okay.”
“Nope.”
Silence again. Even the pod hums softer now, as if the AI knows grief needs quiet.
My hands drift to my stomach, fingers curling there, thoughtless.
I feel... hollow.
Not just because he’s gone. Because heleftme.
He didn’t evensay goodbye.
And somehow, that hurts worse than the explosion. Worse than the light. Worse than the silence.
He looked at me like I was everything.
And then he wasgone.
Just—gone.
My breath catches on a sob I can’t swallow. The tears come hot and fast, unstoppable now. They fall silently, soaking the collar of my jacket. I don't even wipe them away.
Because for once—I don’t have to perform.
There’s no camera.
No stream.
No followers counting on the next thrill.
Just me.
And the silence.
And the slow, bright burn of something ending behind me, too far away to touch.
I don’t rememberthe moment they pull me out.
There’s no cinematic crash, no dramatic rescue beam, no flood of white light and tears and gasps. Just... a shift. One second I’m floating, tethered to grief by air and time and nothing else. The next, I’m beinghandled.
Hands. Gloved. Careful.
