The Distance We Choose

The solar mirrors of Port Helion tilted slowly as the station rotated, catching the light of the white star and spilling it across the docking ring. From a distance the station looked delicate, almost ornamental, but up close it was dense with history and compromise. Layers of habitation clung to its core like accumulated memory. Inside one of the outer corridors, Selene Ward walked alone, her boots echoing softly against the metal floor. She had arrived six months earlier, yet the station still felt borrowed, as if she were living inside someone else life.

Selene paused at a viewport where the star filled the glass with blinding calm. She lifted a hand, resting it against the transparent barrier, feeling the faint vibration of the station engines. She was an astrophysicist by training, but lately her work had turned administrative, coordinating long range observation schedules she no longer believed would lead anywhere meaningful. Port Helion was a relay station, not a destination. Everyone here was waiting for something else.

She had told herself she preferred it that way.

Behind her, the corridor lights shifted subtly, responding to an approaching presence. Selene did not turn at first. She knew the rhythm of the station well enough now to sense when someone lingered instead of passing through. When she finally looked back, she saw Captain Ishan Kade standing a few steps away, his hands clasped behind him, his expression unreadable.

You are far from the research wing, he said.

She allowed herself a small smile. So are you.

He nodded, accepting the gentle deflection. The star has been particularly active today. I thought you might be here.

Selene looked back at the light. It flares when it feels crowded, she said. Or when it is alone. It is difficult to tell the difference.

Ishan studied her profile, the way tension sat quietly in her shoulders. You always speak as if the universe has moods.

It does, she replied. We just pretend it does not.

They stood together in silence, the station humming around them. Selene was aware of him in a way she tried not to be. His presence was steady, grounded, the opposite of her own restless thoughts. He had been assigned to Port Helion shortly after she arrived, a command posting that surprised many given his reputation for deep space missions. Rumor suggested he had asked for something quieter. Selene had never asked why.

Their professional interactions were careful, respectful, edged with something neither acknowledged. She found herself anticipating his visits to the research wing, the sound of his voice during briefings. It unsettled her more than the emptiness of space ever had.

Later that cycle, Selene sat alone in her quarters, reviewing star fluctuation data without absorbing any of it. The room was small but meticulously ordered, everything in its place. She had learned early that control over her environment helped quiet the noise in her head. Still, thoughts slipped through.

She thought of Earth, of the life she had abandoned after her partner died during a failed terraforming experiment. They had believed in building new worlds, in starting over. Selene had believed in him. When it ended, she had retreated into work, into distance, convincing herself that attachment was a variable she could eliminate.

A soft chime at the door startled her. She considered ignoring it, then stood and opened the panel. Ishan stood there, his uniform jacket removed, his expression hesitant.

I apologize for the intrusion, he said. But we have a situation.

Minutes later they were in the command center, lights dimmed, displays glowing with urgent data. A debris field from a collapsed satellite cluster was drifting toward the station trajectory. Automated systems had calculated minimal risk, but Selene frowned at the projections.

The models assume uniform mass distribution, she said. That cluster was never uniform.

I thought you might say that, Ishan replied. Can we adjust course.

Barely, she said. But we will need to power down nonessential systems.

He looked at her, trust evident in his eyes. Do it.

They worked together through the simulated night, recalibrating vectors, adjusting shields. Selene felt alive in a way she had not in years, her mind fully engaged, her fear sharpened into focus. When the debris finally passed, the station intact, she sagged back into her chair, exhausted.

Nice catch, Ishan said quietly.

She laughed, the sound surprising them both. I had forgotten what it feels like to matter.

He did not respond immediately. When he did, his voice was softer. You matter, Selene. Even when there is no crisis.

The words struck deeper than she expected. She looked away, uncomfortable with the vulnerability they stirred. He seemed to sense it and did not push further.

Over the following weeks, their connection deepened in small ways. Shared meals in the observation lounge. Long conversations about the ethics of exploration, about the cost of progress. Ishan spoke of command, of the weight of responsibility, of the people he had lost under his watch. Selene listened, recognizing the familiar shape of guilt.

One evening, the station artificial gravity dipped unexpectedly, a scheduled test that had not been properly announced. Selene stumbled, instinctively reaching out. Ishan caught her, his hands steady at her waist. For a moment they remained like that, suspended, breathing each other in.

Sorry, he said, though his grip did not loosen immediately.

It is fine, she replied, though her heart was racing.

When he finally stepped back, the air between them felt charged, fragile. Selene retreated soon after, unsettled by how much she wanted to close the distance again.

The turning point came with an offer Selene had not anticipated. A deep space observatory was being commissioned beyond the rim, a project that would redefine stellar research. She was the first choice for lead scientist. The message glowed on her console, full of promise and isolation.

She found Ishan in the command center, staring at a star map. He turned when he sensed her, reading her expression instantly.

You received it, he said.

Yes.

Congratulations, he replied. It is what you have always wanted.

She searched his face for something she could not name. It is also very far away.

He nodded slowly. Command has offered me a transfer as well. Different sector.

The implication hung heavy between them. Two paths diverging. Again.

I do not know how to do this, Selene admitted. Every time I choose closeness, something pulls me away.

Ishan stepped closer, careful, as if approaching a skittish animal. And every time I choose distance, I wonder what I am protecting myself from.

She laughed softly, sadness threading the sound. Maybe we are both afraid of choosing wrong.

He met her gaze. Or afraid of choosing at all.

They walked together to the outer ring, the station lights dimmed to starlight levels. Space stretched endlessly around them, beautiful and indifferent. Selene felt the familiar ache of longing, the desire to flee before it could hurt her.

If I stay, she said, I will resent myself. If I go, I will wonder what we might have been.

Ishan took a slow breath. I cannot ask you to stay. And I cannot promise to follow. But I do not want us to pretend this meant nothing.

Selene felt tears rise, unchecked. She had built her life around controlled variables, around minimizing loss. Standing here, she realized that avoidance had cost her just as much.

I am tired of running from gravity, she said. Even when it pulls me somewhere frightening.

He reached for her hand, tentative. Then do not run. Just choose where you stand.

The decision was not sudden. It unfolded over days of reflection, of sleepless nights and honest conversations. In the end, Selene accepted the observatory position. Ishan accepted his transfer. They chose truth over comfort, connection over illusion.

On the day of departure, they stood together at the docking bay. The station thrummed with quiet activity. Selene felt the familiar grief of leaving settle into her bones.

This is not goodbye, Ishan said.

No, she agreed. It is distance.

He smiled. Distance we choose.

As their ships departed in opposite directions, Selene watched Port Helion shrink into a point of light. She carried with her the knowledge that love did not always mean staying. Sometimes it meant allowing each other to move, to grow, to remain connected across the vastness.

In the quiet of her new trajectory, Selene closed her eyes and felt the pull of the stars. Not as something to escape, but as something to trust.