The Evening I Heard You Breathing From A Future I Could Not Reach

I let go of the rail when your breath came through the speaker late and uneven and I knew before you spoke that whatever we had promised each other had already slipped out of reach.

The lab was dark except for the soft glow of the field monitors and the slow pulse of status lights that rose and fell like a sleeping chest. Outside the reinforced glass the desert planet cooled into night heat draining from the sand in long sighs and the wind carried grains against the walls with a patient whisper. My fingers stayed curled where the rail had been warm from my grip and the sound of your breathing filled the room as if you were standing just behind me.

You did not say my name right away. You always paused before saying it as if checking whether the version of me you remembered still matched the one listening. I counted the seconds between breaths and felt something in me tighten with each one. The technicians stood at a respectful distance pretending to focus on their instruments. We had all learned the shape of waiting.

This was not our first call across the fracture. We had prepared for this for years. We had rehearsed what to say and what not to say. We had agreed to keep things simple. You would tell me how it felt. I would tell you how long it had been. We would not talk about the cost. We would not talk about the ending that waited no matter how carefully we spoke.

I remembered the first time I saw you on the research deck when the station lights flickered and everyone froze waiting for alarms that never came. You laughed softly and said the lights always did that when they were tired. I asked how lights could be tired and you said everything gets tired eventually even stars. I followed you after that because you noticed things that felt true.

The fracture had not existed then. Time flowed clean and predictable through our lives. We worked late and shared meals at odd hours. We slept tangled together listening to the hum of the station. Sometimes you would wake and press your palm to my chest as if checking that I was still anchored in the same moment. I would tell you to sleep and you would smile without opening your eyes.

When the first anomalies appeared you were the one who felt them before the instruments did. You would stop mid sentence and tilt your head listening. You said it felt like standing near a door you could not see. I watched the way your body leaned toward something invisible and felt both fear and admiration twist together.

The fracture grew slowly at first a shimmer in the data a soft echo in the chronometers. The council debated while you built models late into the night. You traced equations on the glass walls with your finger leaving foggy arcs that faded as you moved on. I brought you food you forgot to eat. I watched you fall in love with a problem that would eventually take you from me.

We agreed you would be the one to cross because your mind bent easily around the strange rules forming at the edge. You said you would map it and come back. You said you would leave markers like stones in a river. I asked how I would recognize them and you said I would feel them. I wanted to argue but love made me careful.

The crossing itself was quiet. No alarms. No bright flashes. Just a moment where the air thickened and your outline blurred as if seen through water. You turned and reached for me and for a breath we touched. Then your hand passed through mine with a sensation like cold smoke and you were gone.

The first weeks after you left were filled with updates. Your voice arrived thin but steady. You described landscapes that did not stay still and hours that folded back on themselves. You said sleep came in waves. You said you could feel me sometimes like pressure at your back. I pressed my palm to the console and pretended you could feel that too.

As time stretched the calls grew less regular. Delays multiplied. Your voice carried strain you tried to hide. I learned to hear it anyway. I learned the difference between fatigue and fear. I learned how to end calls gently so the silence afterward would not feel like abandonment.

Tonight the delay had been longer than ever. When your breathing came through it sounded wrong as if you had been running or crying or both. I swallowed and waited. The desert wind rose outside and sand ticked against the glass like quiet applause.

You finally spoke my name and it landed heavily between us. You said the fracture had deepened. You said the markers were washing away. You said you had found a place where moments collected like sediment and that you had rested there longer than you meant to. You apologized for the sound of your voice. I told you it was good to hear you. I did not say anything else.

The monitors flickered as if in sympathy. A technician shifted and then stilled again. The room smelled faintly of ozone and dust. I focused on your breathing and tried to match it. We had always been good at breathing together.

You asked me what day it was. I told you. You laughed softly and said that was much further than you expected. I pictured you standing somewhere impossible surrounded by layers of time like translucent curtains. I pictured you older and younger all at once. The image hurt but I held it anyway.

We spoke about small things. The way the desert blooms after rare rain. The way the station lights had finally been repaired. You asked if I was sleeping. I lied. You told me you missed the sound of the station at night. I held the receiver closer so you could hear the distant hum.

The truth crept in slowly like cold. You said returning might not be possible without tearing something important. You did not say what. You did not need to. I felt it settle in my chest with a familiar weight. Love had always taught me how to recognize loss before it arrived.

The call stretched thin. Your breaths grew uneven again. I asked if you were in danger. You said not exactly. You said danger was a word that needed sequence to make sense. You said you were safe where you were but that safety was not the same as home.

When the signal began to degrade you spoke more quickly. You told me you were sorry for all the plans you would not finish. You told me to stop waiting for markers. You told me to live in the time that wanted me. I listened and did not interrupt. Interrupting felt selfish.

The room grew very quiet when the call ended. The monitors steadied. The technicians released the breaths they had been holding. One of them touched my arm and then withdrew. I stood there for a long time with the receiver pressed to my cheek feeling the faint vibration fade.

In the days that followed the desert cooled further and the nights stretched. I walked the perimeter of the station listening to the wind. I thought about the way you used to pause at doorways as if deciding which version of yourself to carry through. I wondered which version you were now.

I found your notes in the shared quarters stacked neatly as if waiting for me. Diagrams filled the pages looping and layered. In the margins you had written questions not meant to be answered. What does it mean to stay. What does it mean to return. I traced the ink and felt close to you in a way that did not ache as sharply.

Weeks passed without calls. The council spoke carefully around me. I nodded and agreed and continued my work. I learned the rhythm of days without you. It was not the same rhythm but it existed.

One evening as the sun dipped and the sand glowed faintly the receiver activated on its own. I froze. The lab filled with a familiar presence not sound exactly but something like it. Your breathing came through again softer this time steady and calm. I closed my eyes.

You did not speak. Neither did I. We breathed together across whatever distance remained. The moment stretched and settled. I felt something release in me a knot I had been holding since the crossing. When the presence faded it did so gently without tearing.

I stepped outside into the cooling night. The stars above the desert burned clear and numerous. I lifted my hand and let the wind pass through my fingers. I thought of the first time we touched and the last. I thought of all the spaces in between.

I did not wait for another call. I did not shut the receiver away. I carried the memory of your breathing with me like a quiet companion. Somewhere you were resting in a time that held you. Here I was learning how to rest too. Love had not ended. It had changed its distance and I had learned how to feel it without reaching.