After The Door Closed We Kept Breathing Anyway

The airlock light changed from white to nothing and did not come back. No alarm followed. No voice corrected it. The silence arrived complete and stayed.

Mission Specialist Irene Calyx Ward stood with her helmet still on and her hands pressed flat against the glass. Her reflection looked calm in a way she did not recognize. The other side of the door was empty now. Not distant. Empty. She removed her helmet slowly as if sound might rush in to fill the space it left behind. It did not.

Behind her the ship adjusted pressure with a soft sigh. The smell of recycled air carried a trace of cold metal and something faintly floral from the filters she had insisted on months ago. The scent felt misplaced now like a memory that had lost its context.

A chair scraped lightly against the floor.

Daniel Rowan Pike had been sitting very still in the corner of the bay watching the indicator lights cycle through confirmations that no longer mattered. His name existed in her mind the way it did on reports and manifests. Complete. Formal. Distant enough to protect her from what it meant.

It sealed he said.

She nodded once. The movement felt final.

They did not speak again until the ship cleared the debris field. Space outside the viewport looked unchanged. Stars held their positions with stubborn indifference. Irene watched until her eyes burned and then looked away. The ache in her chest did not ask permission. It settled and stayed.

Routine returned because it always did. Systems needed oversight. Logs needed completion. They moved through their tasks with practiced efficiency crossing paths without touching. The ship hummed steadily beneath their feet. At night the hum softened into something almost like breath.

On the third cycle a coolant valve failed and flooded the lower corridor with mist. Irene knelt to adjust the seal while Daniel monitored pressure levels. The air was cold and smelled sharply of chemicals. When the valve finally clicked into place she exhaled and leaned back against the wall.

You okay he asked.

She nodded again. The word felt too heavy to carry.

He offered her water. Their fingers brushed. The contact was brief but clear. Something unspoken passed between them and did not leave.

They began sharing meals after that. The table was narrow and bolted to the floor. Conversation came carefully at first. Observations. Small corrections. Eventually memories slipped through. A lake Irene used to visit where the water stayed dark even in summer. A train station Daniel remembered where people said goodbye as if departures were temporary. These stories did not solve anything. They mattered anyway.

Waiting became the shape of their days. The mission had shifted into observation only. Fuel constraints meant no course correction. They would remain on this trajectory until something else decided otherwise.

Time thickened. Irene learned the sound of Daniel footsteps. Daniel learned when Irene needed silence and when she needed company. They did not name what was growing. Naming felt like a promise neither of them could afford.

The warning arrived without urgency. Structural fatigue in the primary hull. Containment would hold for a while. Not forever. One escape pod remained viable. Its trajectory could intersect a passing convoy weeks from now. It could carry one person.

They reviewed the data together seated close enough that their shoulders touched. The numbers were precise. The conclusion was not.

It should be you Daniel said quietly.

Irene closed her eyes. She did not argue. Agreement hurt more than refusal.

The final days unfolded gently. Irene walked the length of the ship touching walls and panels she had known by heart. Daniel followed at a respectful distance offering help she did not need and presence she did.

In the launch bay the pod waited open and lit. The ship creaked softly around them. Outside the stars felt closer than before.

Say it she said.

He looked at her and spoke her full name with care. Mission Specialist Irene Calyx Ward.

The name felt like something she had once worn and no longer needed. She stepped into the pod.

The door closed. The separation was smooth. The ship drifted away.

Later as the pod accelerated Irene rested her forehead against the glass. She did not cry. The loss had already arrived earlier in the quiet moment when the light failed.

Far behind her Daniel Rowan Pike remained aboard the ship watching the stars hold their places. The hum continued. The air stayed breathable.

Both of them kept breathing.

That was all.