The Evening We Forgot Which Gravity Was Ours

I watched your boots lift from the platform as the gravity field disengaged and knew before the alarm sounded that you were already somewhere I could not follow.

The hangar lights flickered from white to amber and the air smelled of hot metal and coolant. My hands were still on the console where I had been pretending to monitor readings that no longer mattered. You rotated slowly suspended between magnets and intention and your hair drifted around your face like it had learned a new rule. Someone shouted your name. It might have been me. The sound was swallowed by the rising hum of emergency systems.

They stabilized you within seconds. The field snapped back into place and you dropped lightly to the floor laughing because you were unhurt and because fear had missed you by a narrow margin. I laughed too because that was easier than admitting how close I had come to losing the version of you that stood on solid ground with me. The hangar returned to normal. The moment stayed lodged inside my chest.

The station Meridian had been built at a crossroads of forces that did not agree with each other. Tides from a nearby gas giant tugged at its orbit. Artificial gravity compensated in constant quiet adjustments. We lived with the feeling that the floor might decide differently one day. You said it kept you awake in a good way. I said it made me cautious. That difference was the first thing we noticed and the last thing we learned to live with.

We worked maintenance on the gravity lattice a job that required trust in numbers and in each other. The lattice ran through the station like an invisible spine. When it faltered bodies drifted and objects remembered other laws. The work was delicate and repetitive. It rewarded attention and punished distraction. We took turns calling out readings. Our voices overlapped sometimes. Neither of us corrected the other.

During breaks we floated in the auxiliary bay where gravity was optional. The walls were padded and marked with handholds polished smooth by years of use. You liked to push off hard and spin until you laughed and caught yourself at the last second. I liked to drift slowly and feel my pulse in my ears. We met in the middle suspended face to face breathing the same recycled air.

You told me once that you felt most honest when you were not anchored. I told you I needed resistance to know where I was. We smiled like those statements were not warnings. Outside the bay the station creaked softly as it adjusted to forces we could not feel. Inside we learned each other through proximity and restraint.

The first time the lattice failed completely was during a scheduled upgrade. Lights dimmed. Alarms stayed silent because the system had not been designed to imagine its own absence. Tools floated free. A wrench brushed my cheek. You grabbed my arm without thinking and pulled me close. Our bodies collided gently and then stayed there because nothing told them to separate.

For several seconds there was no up or down. Just the sound of our breathing and the distant thrum of the station trying to decide what it was. I felt your heartbeat through the fabric of your suit. You felt mine. When gravity returned we did not move right away. When we did we stepped apart like people who had learned something private and did not know what to do with it.

After that day the failures increased. Small fluctuations at first then longer gaps. Engineers argued in meeting rooms that smelled of old coffee. Data streamed across screens in patterns that suggested stress and adaptation. The station was aging. The crossroads were shifting. There were proposals to reinforce the lattice and proposals to abandon Meridian entirely. No one said the word out loud but we all heard it. Home was becoming optional.

You started volunteering for off cycle checks. You spent hours in the auxiliary bay alone practicing controlled drift. I watched through the viewport pretending to log data. You moved with a grace that came from listening rather than fighting. When you noticed me you waved and pushed off toward the wall laughing again. I waved back and wondered when admiration had turned into fear.

At night in my quarters the hum of the lattice vibrated through the walls. I lay awake counting the seconds between adjustments. You knocked once after a long shift smelling of lubricant and cold air. We sat on the floor because the chairs felt too formal. You told me you had applied for the adaptive gravity program. A pilot project. Human bodies trained to function without constant fields. Short term at first then longer. You spoke carefully like you were placing tools back where they belonged.

I said that sounded dangerous. You said everything worth doing was. I asked if you were scared. You said fear changed when you listened to it long enough. The room felt smaller. The hum grew louder. I wanted to ask what that meant for us. I asked instead if you were tired. You said yes and leaned your head against the wall closing your eyes. I watched you breathe and said nothing.

Training began quickly. The station needed data. You became a subject as much as an engineer. I assisted with monitoring because it made sense on paper. In practice it meant watching your body respond to conditions that stripped away assumptions. Your muscles adapted. Your balance shifted. Your eyes learned to track motion without reference. You came back from sessions flushed and alive. I felt proud and left behind at the same time.

We still floated together sometimes but the rhythm was different. You corrected my drift gently. I resented that and then hated myself for it. When I lost track of time you did not. When the lattice hummed irregularly you smiled like it was a conversation you understood. I started sleeping with a hand on the wall needing the pressure to remind me where I was.

The announcement came during a station wide briefing. Meridian would be decommissioned within two years. Resources redirected. Personnel reassigned. The crossroads were no longer stable enough to justify the cost. Murmurs filled the hall. Some people cried. Some people calculated. You stood very still beside me. Your face was unreadable.

Afterward you told me the adaptive program offered a continuation. Mobile habitats. Variable gravity environments. Exploration. A life that leaned into the uncertainty rather than resisting it. You spoke with an excitement that was careful not to hurt me. I nodded and congratulated you again because it was the correct response. Inside something tipped and did not right itself.

We tried to pretend nothing had changed. We shared meals. We worked late. We avoided the auxiliary bay. When the lattice failed one evening without warning gravity dropped us into each other again. This time you steadied yourself easily. I flailed and laughed too loudly. You caught me and held on longer than necessary. Your eyes searched my face. I almost said it then. Almost.

The last week before your departure the station felt hollowed out. Sections were already sealed. Lights were dimmer. Sounds echoed. We walked corridors that had held our history and touched walls like we were taking impressions. You asked me to come with you. You asked quietly without pressure. I looked at the floor and imagined a life where my body was always learning new rules. I imagined losing the weight that told me who I was.

At the docking ring the gravity fluctuated gently like a farewell. Your ship waited humming softly. You wore a suit designed for adaptability. It fit you like a promise. I wore standard issue boots heavy and familiar. We stood close enough to feel each other breathe. You reached for my hand. I took it knowing what it meant to let go later.

You said that love did not require the same gravity to exist. I said that some of us needed ground to stand on to know we were real. We kissed once brief and careful like we were afraid to break the moment. When the field disengaged to allow boarding you stepped back easily already trusting yourself to float.

As you lifted away your hand slipped from mine the way it had practiced. I stayed where I was boots planted listening to the station hum around me. When the field returned it pressed me into place with a force that felt like grief and relief combined.

Meridian is gone now. I live on a planet with steady pull and wide skies. I work systems that keep people safe from change. Sometimes at night I dream of drifting with no up or down and wake reaching for a wall that is not there. I breathe until the feeling passes.

Somewhere you move through spaces that do not ask you to choose a direction. Sometimes I imagine you feeling the absence of weight and thinking of me. I imagine that being enough. I have learned to live with one gravity. You taught me that others exist. That knowledge still shifts me even when I am standing still.