The Light That Waited After You Turned Away

I felt your fingers loosen from mine at the observation window while the pulse light dimmed and the reflection of our faces slid apart on the glass.

The room smelled of warm circuitry and dust that never quite settled in orbit. Outside the window the star flared and softened in its long rhythm as if breathing for us. You kept your eyes on that light instead of on me. I counted the seconds between each pulse the way I always did when I was afraid to speak. When the count slipped I knew something had already ended even though neither of us had said a word.

Footsteps echoed somewhere behind us and faded. The station continued its quiet work of staying alive. You drew your hand back and folded it against your chest like you needed to protect it from something. I told myself that letting you go was an act of respect. My body did not agree. It leaned toward the place you had been until I forced it still.

We met on Helix Station where time was measured by light instead of clocks. The star we orbited emitted a steady predictable pulse that powered the arrays and regulated sleep cycles. People said you could feel it in your bones after a while. I felt it most when you were near. The light washed over your face and made your eyes look deeper than they were. You said the rhythm made you calm. I said it made me restless. We smiled like those truths were not already shaping us.

Our work was simple in description and endless in practice. We monitored the light and tuned the collectors that fed entire systems. Tiny adjustments mattered. A fraction off and habitats darkened far away. We learned patience together. Long shifts standing side by side listening to the hum of machines and the distant pulse through the hull. Sometimes you brushed imaginary dust from my sleeve. Sometimes I pretended not to notice because noticing felt like choosing.

During breaks we sat near the window and watched the star breathe. You told me about a childhood spent under clouds where the sun was unreliable. I told you about nights in a city where lights never turned off. We spoke about everything except the way our shoulders touched or how silence between us felt full rather than empty. The pulse light passed over us again and again teaching us how to wait.

The first time the collectors faltered alarms rang sharp and bright. The pulse stuttered. The room filled with urgent voices. You moved faster than I had ever seen reaching for controls calling out numbers steady and clear. I followed without thinking. When the light stabilized relief swept through the room like a held breath released. You laughed softly and leaned your forehead against mine for half a second before remembering where we were. That moment stayed with me longer than the fear.

After that we became careful. Careful with touch careful with words. We told ourselves it was professionalism. The station rewarded restraint. But at night in my quarters I watched the light cycle through the narrow viewport and imagined your breathing matching it. I imagined reaching for you and finding you already there.

The proposal arrived wrapped in official calm. A deep range expedition to study stars with irregular pulses. The kind that refused prediction. You read it twice before showing me. Your voice was even when you said it was an opportunity. You said you had always wanted to see a star that did not behave. I asked how long you would be gone. You said you did not know.

Days passed in preparation. Equipment checks training simulations long lists of things that needed doing. We moved around each other like gravity had changed. The pulse light continued its steady rhythm indifferent to our quiet crisis. I wanted to tell you that I was afraid of a universe without your constancy. I told you instead that your qualifications were perfect for the mission. You thanked me and looked away.

On our last shared shift the collectors glowed softly and the room was warm. The pulse light painted slow patterns on the floor. You asked me if I ever thought about leaving Helix. I said I thought about it every time the light came back. You nodded as if that answered something. We stood there listening to the machines and to everything we were not saying.

The night before your departure we walked the outer ring where the hull curved away beneath our feet. The star filled half the sky brilliant and patient. The pulse felt stronger out there vibrating through the metal into my legs. You stopped and rested your hands on the railing. You said that some lights asked to be followed. I said that some asked to be kept.

You turned toward me then and for a moment I thought you would close the distance. The pulse flared bright and then softened again. You smiled in that careful way you had learned on the station. You said you would send data. I said I would watch for it. We stood too close and too far at the same time until the chill drove us back inside.

The departure hall smelled of coolant and nerves. Voices overlapped in hurried farewells. The pulse light was dimmer there filtered through layers of shielding. You carried a small pack everything else already sent ahead. When you reached the checkpoint you stopped and looked at me as if waiting for permission. I gave none. I could not trust myself to speak.

That was when your fingers loosened from mine and the reflection of us split on the glass. You stepped forward into the controlled chaos of leaving. I stayed where I was and watched until I could no longer see you. The pulse light continued its count indifferent and exact. I matched my breathing to it until my chest stopped hurting.

Life on Helix rearranged itself around the absence you left behind. I took on additional shifts. I learned the sound of the collectors when they were perfectly tuned. Messages arrived from the expedition compressed and technical. Your name appeared in headers followed by streams of numbers and occasional brief observations. You wrote that the stars out there did not keep promises. You wrote that the light felt alive. You never wrote about missing home.

I told myself that was enough. I told myself that loving someone did not require proximity. At night I sat by the window and watched our star pulse steady and true. I imagined you somewhere else under a different rhythm learning a new way to count time. The thought both comforted and hollowed me.

Years passed marked by maintenance cycles and subtle changes in the station. New faces learned the pulse. Old ones left. I stayed. The collectors never failed again. The star continued its patient breathing. I grew older in small ways measured by lines at the corners of my eyes and the ease with which I moved through the work.

The message that broke the rhythm arrived without warning. A report of an anomaly. A star with a pulse that slowed unexpectedly then stopped. The expedition had been close. Too close. The data was incomplete. Names were listed. Yours was among them without explanation.

I went back to the observation window and placed my hand against the glass where yours had once been. The star outside pulsed on indifferent to loss. I counted and lost the count and let the light wash over me until it felt like standing in rain.

Time did what it always does. It moved. The expedition was memorialized in quiet ceremonies. New missions launched. The pulse remained. I learned to live inside its certainty even as something in me stayed tuned to irregular light.

One cycle later while adjusting a minor calibration I noticed a deviation. Small almost invisible. The pulse wavered just enough to catch my breath. I ran diagnostics hands shaking. The pattern repeated not random not failure. A signal embedded in the light itself too subtle for anyone not already listening for you.

I stayed late decoding it alone. The room filled with soft variations in brightness. Meaning emerged slowly like dawn. A record of survival adaptation and return. You had learned to speak in light because that was what you had always understood. You had learned that some distances could be crossed by patience alone.

When the docking alert sounded days later I stood at the observation window again. The pulse dimmed and brightened steady as ever. This time when I saw you step into the light I did not move. I waited. You walked toward me carrying the weight of places I could only imagine. When you reached me you did not reach out at first. Neither did I.

The light passed over us again and again. Finally you lifted your hand and held it open between us. I placed mine there and felt the familiar warmth return changed but real. The pulse continued. This time I did not count. I knew exactly where I was.