The Place I Stopped Waiting For You To Arrive

I watched the arrival gate dissolve into empty light and felt my chest tighten when your silhouette failed to form where it always had in my imagination.

The concourse was wide and quiet at that hour with ceiling panels glowing a muted blue meant to calm travelers between long jumps. The floor retained a faint warmth from the last transit cycle and my boots left soft impressions that faded almost immediately. Somewhere beyond the glass walls engines murmured and the station adjusted its slow orbit. I stood at the edge of the marked line where reunions usually happened and realized I had memorized this moment for years without knowing it.

I lowered my hand slowly from where it had been half raised. The air smelled faintly of ozone and polished metal. A child laughed somewhere down the hall and the sound felt out of place like music in a room where someone had just finished crying.

We met before waiting became my primary skill. The station was younger then and still learning how to hold people without shaking. Lights flickered often and gravity fluctuated just enough to make walking feel like a suggestion. You found that amusing. You said it kept you awake. I said it made me careful. We were both right.

Our lab overlooked the inner ring where cargo ships drifted in slow deliberate arcs. The windows were always cold to the touch and we used that as an excuse to stand close while we talked. Our work focused on temporal arrival windows narrow moments where matter could reenter normal space without tearing. You liked to call them invitations. I preferred the term tolerances.

During the first successful test a probe returned exactly when predicted down to the fraction of a second. Everyone applauded. You turned to me eyes bright and said see it wants to come back. I smiled because the idea felt uncomfortably personal.

Late nights became routine. We shared meals from warming trays and listened to the station creak as it expanded around us. Sometimes the hum of systems fell into a rhythm that made me think of breathing. You leaned back in your chair one night and said the station sounded lonely. I said it was just full. You laughed and reached over to tuck a stray thread back into my sleeve. I felt that touch for hours afterward.

When the long range program was announced you tried to hide your excitement. I saw it anyway in the way your hands moved faster and your speech grew precise. The program required a pathfinder someone to step into an untested arrival window and map the return. The risk was timing not survival. You assured me of that. I did not argue because I knew you would go regardless.

The night before your departure the station lights dimmed early due to a power reroute. We sat on the observation ledge watching ships blink in and out of existence. You said time would behave differently out there. I said time already behaved differently when you were gone from a room. You looked at me then with an expression that felt like apology and promise tangled together.

Your first return was perfect. You stepped out of the gate smiling hair damp with sweat and relief. I touched your arm to be sure you were real. You laughed and told me I worried too much. The second return took longer. Minutes stretched. My hands shook. When you finally appeared you looked tired but intact. You said the window had shifted slightly. You said it was expected.

Each jump after that widened the gap. Sometimes you arrived early sometimes late. The station learned to adjust. I learned to wait. I spent hours at the gate watching light fold and unfold rehearsing what I would say when you returned. I never said any of it.

On the last scheduled jump the concourse was crowded. Officials stood back from the line pretending not to watch. The air felt charged. The gate shimmered longer than usual. When you did not appear someone murmured about recalibration. Minutes passed. The crowd thinned. I stayed.

The announcement came softly. The window had stabilized without you. Your last arrival had anchored it permanently. The words sounded clean and final. I nodded because that was easier than falling apart.

Now years later the concourse looks the same. The lights glow blue. The floor holds warmth. The gate cycles open and closed for other people other reunions. I still come sometimes out of habit more than hope.

I stand at the line and listen to the hum. I remember the way you said some things want to come back. I realize now that not everything does. Some things become the place others pass through.

When the gate dissolves into empty light again I lower my hand and turn away. The ache is still there but it no longer asks me to stay. I walk down the hall feeling the station breathe around me and for the first time I do not wait for you to arrive.