The Last Time I Felt You In The Air

I watched the door seal between us with a soft breath of pressure and realized the air no longer carried your warmth even though you were still standing right there.

The corridor lights dimmed to standby amber and the floor vibrated faintly under my boots as the station adjusted its orbit. You raised your hand as if to touch the glass and then stopped. The pause hurt more than any goodbye. The smell of coolant and metal hung between us and the silence pressed in until it felt like a physical thing. I pressed my palm to the barrier where yours might have been and the surface was cool and unyielding. Somewhere a timer chimed. You turned away before it finished counting.

I stood there long enough for the lights to brighten again as if nothing irreversible had just happened.

Before the barrier existed we used to stand on the roof of the research dome at dusk. The sky above the colony shifted colors slowly because the atmosphere was still learning how to behave. You liked that about it. You said it reminded you that nothing was finished yet. The wind carried fine dust that settled on our skin and left a faint mineral taste on our lips when we talked too close. We always talked too close.

Below us the generators hummed in layered tones that never quite harmonized. You said if you listened long enough you could hear patterns forming. I said I only heard noise. You laughed and leaned your shoulder into mine and for a moment the noise made sense.

The project was supposed to be simple. Measure the atmospheric drift across time differentials. Collect data. Leave. But the sensors began to report anomalies that bent probability just enough to be interesting. Air that remembered where it had been. Pressure that arrived before it should. You stared at the readouts with a quiet intensity that made me ache. I wanted to be the thing you focused on like that.

The first night we stayed too late the dome cooled rapidly. The lights dimmed to conserve power and the glass overhead showed stars sharp and cold. You wrapped your jacket around my shoulders without asking. I did not thank you. Gratitude felt too small for what I was feeling.

As the weeks passed the anomalies grew stronger. The air between certain points resisted movement. Sound slowed. Touch lingered. We joked about ghosts. We did not joke about how often we found excuses to work in the same small space. When our hands brushed it felt like the moment stretched longer than it should have. We pretended not to notice.

The discovery came quietly. A pocket of atmosphere that held imprints of people who passed through it. Not memories exactly. More like echoes of presence. Heat patterns. Chemical traces. The way a voice shaped the air. You called it residual intimacy. I told you that was not a scientific term. You smiled and said it should be.

We tested it carefully. Volunteers walked through the chamber and left behind faint outlines that dissipated over time. When you stepped through I felt something twist in my chest. The air held you for seconds longer than anyone else. You did not comment on it but you did not meet my eyes either.

Administration arrived with polished boots and neutral smiles. They spoke about containment and control. About potential applications. They wanted a permanent barrier to study the effect at scale. A sealed environment. I felt the temperature drop as they talked. You asked careful questions. I watched the space between us fill with things we were not saying.

That night the sky shifted to a deep bruised purple. The wind was stronger and carried a low moan through the structures. We stood on the roof again wrapped in our own thoughts. You said the barrier would change everything. I said some changes could not be undone. You looked at me then and your expression was raw enough that I almost reached for you. Almost.

When the barrier went up the dome interior felt wrong. The air was too still. Sound behaved strangely. Our voices returned to us softened as if spoken through cloth. The first time I stepped away from you I felt resistance like moving through water. When I came back the air around you warmed and held the shape of you longer than it should have. I wondered if you felt it too.

We worked in shifts now separated by protocol. Through glass and fields we communicated with gestures and careful words. Sometimes I could see your breath fog the barrier slightly. I would stand close enough to feel the pressure change. The air remembered you even when you left.

The day everything fractured began with rain. Real rain this time not the simulated kind. It drummed against the dome in uneven rhythms. Inside the barrier alarms chimed softly. The residual fields were strengthening. The air was learning too well.

You called me into the control room. Your face was pale under the artificial light. You said the barrier was accumulating presence faster than expected. It needed a release. A constant imprint to stabilize it. The words settled heavily between us. We both understood.

We argued quietly. I told you it was too much to ask. You said someone had to stay. I said it did not have to be you. You looked at me with that familiar intensity and said you could not ask me to do it. The rain intensified outside as if the sky agreed.

When the time came we stood on opposite sides of the field. The air between us shimmered faintly. You lifted your hand and this time you did touch the barrier. I mirrored you. The surface warmed under my palm. The echo of you wrapped around me like a held breath. You said my name softly and it arrived a fraction of a second late. That delay broke something open in me.

After you crossed the field settled. The alarms quieted. The air took on a steady hum. You were still visible inside the chamber moving carefully as if afraid to disturb the space. I stayed until the lights dimmed and the station moved on without us.

Time passed differently after that. The colony thrived. The barrier became part of daily life. People spoke of it casually. I visited when I could. I stood close and let the air hold me where you had been. Sometimes I thought I felt your presence brush against me. Sometimes I was sure.

Years later they told me the imprint was weakening. The air was ready to let go. I did not know how to prepare for that. When the barrier finally dissolved the dome filled with normal movement and sound rushed back in too fast. You stepped out looking older and impossibly familiar.

We stood where the barrier had been. The air moved freely now carrying dust and the faint scent of rain. I felt suddenly exposed without the buffer that had held us apart. You smiled and said the air felt empty without us. I laughed quietly.

When you reached for me there was no resistance. Just skin and warmth and the steady hum of the world continuing. The ache did not vanish but it softened into something we could carry. As we walked out together I breathed deeply and felt you beside me in the air at last.