Where I Left My Voice Waiting For You

I heard my own voice say your name across the empty landing bay and knew before the echo returned that you would not answer it again.

The bay lights were dimmed to night cycle and the floor radiated stored heat through the thin soles of my boots. Outside the open hull the planet turned slowly under a veil of pale clouds and distant lightning stitched silent lines across the horizon. Your shuttle sat sealed and dark at the far end of the bay already cleared for launch. I stood where we had stopped walking together and felt the sound of my voice fall away from me like a dropped object disappearing into deep water.

I stayed long enough for the automated system to ask if I required assistance. I said no. The word sounded unfamiliar in my mouth.

Months earlier the station had felt alive in a different way. The corridors were louder then filled with overlapping conversations and the constant murmur of systems still being tuned. The air smelled faintly of coolant and citrus cleanser and something metallic that never quite faded. You walked beside me with a tablet tucked under your arm explaining the array like a story you were eager to tell. I listened to the rhythm of your steps more than the words.

The observation deck curved outward in a long transparent arc. From there the starfield looked close enough to touch and the research mirrors floated like patient insects catching light. You leaned on the railing and squinted as if measuring distances by eye. I asked what you were thinking. You said some things only revealed themselves when you stopped trying to reach them. I did not understand but I remembered it.

The project centered on voice transmission through folded space. Not data but presence. The theory proposed that a voice carried more than sound. It carried timing intention the shape of breath. If folded correctly it could arrive unchanged across impossible distances. You believed that. I believed you.

During the first tests we stood in separate rooms speaking into identical consoles. When your voice came through it sounded close enough to turn toward. I felt foolish when I did. You laughed softly and said that was the point. The sound carried warmth. It carried you.

We began staying late adjusting parameters and listening to static resolve into clarity. Sometimes we spoke about work. Sometimes we let silence stretch and breathe between us. The station lights dimmed automatically and the hum of systems deepened into something almost like sleep. I realized one night that I had started recognizing your footsteps without thinking. That frightened me.

The first time something went wrong it was small. A delay of less than a second. Your voice arrived just behind where it should have been. You frowned and replayed the data. I told you it was nothing. You did not argue but you stayed later than usual running simulations. When you finally left the deck the stars had shifted.

As the weeks passed the delays grew. Not longer just inconsistent. Sometimes your voice arrived early overlapping my own. Sometimes it echoed faintly after you had stopped speaking. You were thrilled. You said we were touching the edge of something real. I watched your hands move as you talked and wondered when the edge would cut us.

We argued quietly for the first time in the equipment room. The air was cold and dry and the lights buzzed faintly overhead. I said we needed limits. You said limits were habits dressed up as caution. The words landed heavier than you meant them to. You apologized and touched my arm. The contact lingered. Neither of us moved.

The night you told me about the long range test the station was unusually quiet. A solar storm had disrupted traffic and most of the crew had turned in early. We sat on the observation deck floor with our backs against the glass. The stars flickered faintly as charged particles brushed the shields. You said the test would require someone on the far relay alone for months. Maybe longer. You did not look at me when you said it.

I said nothing for a long time. The hum of the station filled the space where my response should have been. When I finally spoke my voice sounded steady enough. I asked when you would leave. You said soon.

We did not talk about what that meant. We talked about calibration and supply lists and the way the station coffee never improved. When you stood to go your hand brushed my shoulder. I closed my eyes too late.

The morning of your departure the station lights were bright and unforgiving. The corridors echoed with hurried footsteps and clipped instructions. I walked with you to the landing bay carrying nothing. You talked about the view from the relay and how quiet it would be. I listened to the shape of your voice knowing it would change.

At the bay we stopped. The shuttle gleamed under the lights already warmed for launch. You looked at me then fully and for a moment everything we had not said pressed close. You opened your mouth as if to speak and then shook your head. You said keep listening. I nodded.

The test began smoothly. From the relay your voice came through clear and close. Sometimes I forgot you were light years away. I spoke to you about small things. The way the station cycled light. The taste of the coffee. You told me about the silence and how stars looked sharper without interference. We avoided anything that might fracture the illusion.

Then the anomalies returned. Your voice began to arrive with subtle distortions. Certain words stretched. Others arrived softened as if spoken through water. You assured me the system was stable. I wanted to believe you.

One cycle your voice did not arrive at all. The channel stayed open filled with a low hiss. I sat at the console until my eyes burned. When the connection finally returned you sounded tired. You said the relay had experienced a surge. You laughed it off. I did not.

Data analysis showed the folds were imprinting. The system was learning the shape of your voice too well. It wanted consistency. A fixed source. I brought the concern to the oversight council. They spoke carefully about risk and necessity. They asked if you would agree to remain longer. I said nothing.

I told you the truth on a quiet cycle when the station slept. The observation deck lights were low and the stars drifted slowly beyond the glass. I explained what the data suggested. There was a long pause. When you spoke your voice arrived perfectly on time. You said you had suspected as much. You said you were already anchored.

The next weeks were heavy with things left unsaid. Your voice grew steadier as the system adapted. Mine began to feel unnecessary. Sometimes I listened without responding just to hear you exist. You asked if I was still there. I said yes.

The final decision came without ceremony. To preserve the integrity of the network the source would remain fixed. You volunteered before they finished speaking. I was not consulted. I signed the acknowledgment anyway.

The last transmission was simple. You said my name and it arrived clean and whole. I said yours and heard it echo faintly back to me altered. We sat in shared silence until the channel closed.

Now in the empty bay I let the echo fade. The station hummed around me indifferent and alive. I placed my hand against the hull where your shuttle had been. The metal was warm. I whispered your name again not to hear it returned but to place it somewhere it could stay.

Time passed. The network expanded. Voices traveled across impossible distances unchanged. People praised the clarity. They did not know what it cost.

Sometimes late in the cycle I sit at the console and open the channel that no longer leads anywhere. I speak into the quiet and imagine my voice folding gently toward you. I imagine it arriving not as sound but as presence. Somewhere fixed and listening.

I leave my voice there and walk away.