The Morning I Could No Longer Reach You

I pressed my thumb against the cold glass of the comm window as your last message faded and understood with quiet certainty that the distance between us had become permanent.

The station was in its artificial dawn cycle and pale light filtered through the panels overhead soft and deliberate. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant and warm circuitry. Somewhere far down the corridor a cart rolled by humming gently and the sound felt intrusive like laughter in a room meant for mourning. I stood still until the glass no longer reflected my face clearly and the place where your words had been glowed empty.

I did not cry. The absence settled into me too cleanly for that.

We had once believed distance was something that could be solved. The early days of the relay were full of optimism and careless confidence. The facility had been half built then with exposed beams and temporary lighting that flickered when the power load shifted. You liked the unfinished feeling. You said it reminded you that nothing was final. I told you some things became final whether we were ready or not.

Our work focused on quantum proximity communication a system that allowed two people to remain perceptually close regardless of physical separation. Not just voices or images but the sense of being near the subtle cues that made silence shared rather than lonely. You believed it would change how people endured separation. I believed it would change how they said goodbye.

We tested the system on ourselves long before approval came through. Late nights found us seated in separate rooms lights dimmed low while the interface bridged the space between us. When you spoke it felt like you were leaning close. When you laughed the sound warmed the air around me. I closed my eyes and let myself pretend distance had already lost.

The first time the connection dropped unexpectedly the silence hurt more than I expected. It returned quickly but the echo lingered. You apologized as if it had been your fault. I told you it was fine. It was not.

As the network expanded so did the ambition behind it. Relays were placed farther out. The system adapted. Some users synced better than others. You always did. The proximity field clung to you easily holding your presence steady even as range increased. I teased you about being memorable. You said maybe you were just hard to forget.

The assignment to the deep relay came quietly. A long term post beyond regular transit range. Someone needed to remain there to tune the system from the far side. Your name appeared at the top of the list. You did not pretend surprise.

We did not argue. We moved carefully around the truth as if it might shatter. The night before you left we sat on the station balcony watching the stars blur softly through the protective field. You said the light out there would be different. I said I would listen for it in your voice. You smiled and leaned your shoulder against mine. I held that weight like a promise.

At first the system worked beautifully. Your presence came through as clearly as if you were down the hall. We shared meals apart laughing at the same moments. You told me about the relay the quiet the way the stars seemed closer without interference. I told you about the station rhythms how nothing ever really slept.

Then the latency crept in. Not enough to alarm anyone but enough to notice. Your responses arrived just a breath late. Our laughter no longer overlapped cleanly. You said the relay was adjusting. I believed you because I wanted to.

The reports became more frequent. The proximity field was strengthening on its own favoring one anchor point. Your anchor. The system wanted a constant reference. It wanted you.

I told you what the data suggested during a quiet cycle when the station lights were low. There was a long pause before you spoke. When you did your voice sounded steady. You said you had felt it too. You said being close all the time had a cost.

The last message came at artificial dawn. You said the system was stabilizing. You said the closeness would fade gradually. You said thank you for staying with me as long as you could. I watched the words linger then dissolve into static.

Now the comm window reflected only me. The station continued its routines indifferent and precise. I walked the corridors feeling the hum of systems underfoot and remembered how you once said proximity was more than space.

Days passed. Then weeks. The system functioned flawlessly. People praised the clarity of long distance connections. I listened for you in every channel and learned to accept the quiet.

One morning I realized I had stopped waiting for the signal. The thought surprised me with its gentleness. I went to the balcony and watched the stars drift. The light was the same as always. Or maybe I had learned to see it differently.

I pressed my thumb against the glass once more not to reach you but to ground myself. The distance remained but it no longer hurt in the same way.

I could no longer reach you. But I could finally breathe.