The Night We Learned The Stars Would Not Wait

I let go of your hand before the airlock sealed and the warmth vanished so suddenly that my palm kept its shape as if your fingers were still there.

The hangar was flooded with blue work light and the low steady roar of engines preparing for departure. Cold metal pressed through the thin soles of my boots and crept up my legs. The scent of coolant and recycled air coated my tongue. You stood on the other side of the threshold helmet tucked under your arm eyes searching my face for something I could not give. Around us technicians moved with practiced urgency pretending not to notice the stillness between us.

You said my name quietly once as if volume could change outcome. I answered by touching the glass. The barrier hummed faintly under my skin. The lock sealed with a soft final sound and the night rearranged itself without asking permission.

The station called Meridian Drift had been built to orbit a dying star because someone decided proximity was worth the risk. Its corridors curved gently always guiding you forward or back with no true center. Light here never fully settled. It shimmered and bent around the station skeleton giving every surface a faint uneasy glow. We had met in this half light months earlier assigned to overlapping research cycles and shared quarters by necessity.

You were mapping stellar decay patterns using instruments so sensitive they trembled at distant flares. I was tasked with designing predictive models to determine how long the station could remain stable. From the beginning our work argued quietly with itself. You believed the star could be understood through observation alone. I believed it demanded retreat.

We shared long nights in the observation ring where the star filled the window pulsing red and gold like a wound that refused to close. Heat bled through shielding and warmed our faces unevenly. You leaned close to the glass fascinated. I stayed back measuring margins and imagining collapse. We spoke little at first. Silence felt safer.

Over time routines formed. Shared meals taken at odd hours. Hands brushing when we passed tools. The way you always paused before answering as if listening for something beneath my words. I learned the sound of your footsteps and the way your presence changed the air in a room. We did not name what grew between us. Naming felt like tempting gravity.

The star flared unpredictably one cycle lighting the station interior like a sudden dawn. Alarms echoed through curved halls. We ran together instinctively finding each other without calling out. In the shelter bay surrounded by others breathing hard you reached for my hand. The contact steadied us both. Afterward when the danger passed you did not let go right away. Neither did I.

From then on closeness became deliberate. Still restrained but undeniable. We spent hours cross checking data sitting shoulder to shoulder the warmth of you a constant distraction. You talked about leaving after your assignment ended joining a long range expedition chasing phenomena that refused to stay put. I talked about building models meant to last. We smiled at each other as if those differences were theoretical.

The council announcement came without ceremony. Meridian Drift would be evacuated within weeks. The star was entering an accelerated collapse phase. Research teams were to finalize data and depart. You read the message twice eyes bright with something like relief. I felt the floor tilt slightly beneath me.

You told me this was what you had been waiting for. A chance to follow the star rather than flee it. Your expedition had been approved. They wanted you aboard immediately after evacuation. I nodded and congratulated you because that was the shape of support. Inside something began to close.

The days that followed were full and hollow at once. Packing instruments. Uploading final reports. The station grew quieter as teams departed. The star filled more of the sky burning brighter as if aware of being watched. At night we lay together listening to the distant groan of structural adjustments. You traced slow patterns on my arm absentmindedly. I memorized the pressure of your touch.

We avoided talking about what came after. When the topic drifted near we redirected to safer ground. You spoke of trajectories and data yields. I spoke of station collapse models. We pretended our futures did not diverge at the next jump.

On the last night before evacuation we returned to the observation ring. Power had been reduced and the light was dim and intimate. The star glowed fiercely casting long shadows across the floor. Heat pressed against the glass like a living thing. You rested your forehead against it eyes closed. I stood behind you unsure where to place my hands.

You said softly that some stars demanded witnesses. I said some demanded distance. You turned then and looked at me fully. In your eyes I saw the reflection of the star and something like an apology. You said you could not promise to come back unchanged. I said I could not promise to follow.

We kissed slowly carefully as if learning each other under different gravity. The contact carried no urgency only acknowledgment. When we parted the silence felt complete. We stayed until the light dimmed further and the station reminded us to leave.

Evacuation morning arrived sharp and efficient. The hangar filled with voices and movement. Ships lined up like promises. You wore your expedition insignia freshly issued. It did not look foreign on you. I wore mine too a symbol of a future that would remain near safer stars.

At the airlock you hesitated and took my hand. Your grip was warm steady. You said you wished timing were kinder. I said kindness had never been a reliable constant. We shared a small smile shaped by acceptance. Then the moment arrived and demanded its due.

After you left Meridian Drift fell silent. I watched from a transport as the station shrank against the brilliance of the star. Weeks later from a distant orbit I saw the collapse recorded as data points and light curves. I told myself it was enough.

Time passed. I returned to my work building models that predicted endings with increasing accuracy. Sometimes late at night I pulled up star maps and traced the path your expedition might have taken. I imagined you standing at another window face lit by unfamiliar suns.

Messages arrived occasionally brief and delayed. Observations. Descriptions of phenomena that bent expectations. You wrote without sentiment but between the lines I felt your wonder. I replied in kind grounding my words in analysis. We kept the space between us measured and precise.

Then the messages stopped.

News traveled slowly but inevitably. Your expedition had ventured too close during a late stage collapse. Rescue was impossible. Survivors were few. Your name appeared on the list with clinical finality. I read it again and again waiting for it to change.

In the weeks that followed I functioned. I ate. I worked. I spoke when required. Inside the universe felt suddenly unresponsive. At night I dreamed of the observation ring and the heat on my face. I woke with my hand curled as if holding something gone.

Years later I stood on a quiet platform of another station watching a different star through reinforced glass. It was stable ordinary unremarkable. The room was warm and still. I pressed my palm to the surface and felt only cool resistance. For the first time I allowed myself to speak aloud to the empty space. I said your name and let it fade.

The stars did not wait. They never had. But in the pause between one light and the next I felt again the memory of your hand and the choice we made. It was enough to stand there breathing letting the ache exist without needing resolution.

When I finally stepped away the night outside looked unchanged. Somewhere far beyond measurement a star finished burning. Somewhere within me something settled into quiet enduring light.