The Moment We Stopped Pretending The Future Was Ours

The monitor dimmed without fading and the room did not change its temperature. No sound marked the end. The absence was precise enough to feel intentional.

Astrophysics Lead Helena Corin Ash stood with her hands braced against the edge of the table and stared at the dead readout. The glow that had filled the lab moments earlier was gone leaving only her reflection and the faint outline of instruments waiting for instruction. Outside the window the star field held its pattern with quiet discipline. Nothing acknowledged what had just been lost.

She did not move.

A breath behind her caught and released.

Maintenance Commander Victor Elias Roan had stopped just inside the doorway. He had been there long enough to recognize the stillness for what it was. His name surfaced in her thoughts the way it appeared on emergency authorizations and flight manifests. Complete. Official. Far enough away to keep her standing.

That was the last forecast he said.

She nodded. The future they had mapped had ended without asking permission.

The station continued its slow rotation. Artificial gravity held. Systems cycled politely. Helena reached out and shut down the console not because it was required but because leaving it on felt dishonest. Victor watched and said nothing.

They returned to tasks because tasks still responded. Helena archived the incomplete projections using neutral language that refused to speculate. Victor moved through the lower decks inspecting stress points that had not yet failed. Their paths crossed in corridors where the lighting dimmed softly at the edges. They exchanged brief looks that carried more than reports ever had.

Time stretched thin. Day cycles arrived and left marked only by changes in light temperature. Helena lay awake listening to the distant creak of the station adjusting to thermal shifts. She pressed her palm flat against her chest until her breathing slowed. Loss did not arrive all at once. It assembled itself quietly.

On the ninth cycle a coolant pump stalled and sent a vibration through the floor. Helena flinched before she could stop herself. Victor was there immediately steadying the panel and her shoulder with the same motion. His hand was warm through the fabric of her sleeve.

Sorry he said.

She shook her head. Do not be.

The pump restarted. The vibration faded. They remained close for a moment longer than necessary.

After that they began sharing meals without naming the change. The table in the galley was narrow and scarred from previous crews. Conversation arrived in fragments. A hillside Helena remembered where observatories dotted the dark like careful thoughts. A bridge Victor remembered where freight trains passed at night shaking the ground and making the city feel alive. These memories solved nothing. They mattered anyway.

Waiting reshaped their days. The mission had shifted into sustained observation of instability. Fuel reserves fixed their choices. Helena learned the cadence of Victor footsteps. Victor learned when Helena needed silence and when she needed someone nearby without explanation.

The warning came quietly. Structural integrity along the central ring had fallen below tolerance. Containment would hold briefly. One escape capsule remained certified. Its trajectory could intersect a transport lane if launched within a narrow window. It could carry one person.

They reviewed the projections together seated close enough that their shoulders touched. The numbers were clear. The conclusion arrived slowly and stayed.

It should be you Victor said.

Helena closed her eyes. Agreement felt like giving something up that had never been promised.

The final hours unfolded gently. Helena walked the length of the station touching walls and handrails she had known for years. Victor followed at a respectful distance offering help she did not need and presence she did. Outside the stars drifted with familiar indifference.

In the capsule bay the craft waited open and lit. The air smelled faintly of metal and ozone. Helena turned to face him.

Say it she said.

He hesitated then spoke her full name carefully as if placing it somewhere it could not be damaged. Astrophysics Lead Helena Corin Ash.

The name felt finished. She stepped into the capsule.

The hatch sealed softly. The separation was smooth. The station pulled away.

As the capsule accelerated Helena rested her forehead against the glass. She did not look back. The ache had already arrived earlier when the monitor dimmed and nothing followed.

Far behind her Maintenance Commander Victor Elias Roan remained aboard the station listening to systems cycle with diminishing certainty. The rotation continued. The lights stayed on for a while longer.

He stayed where he was.

The future no longer needed pretending.