The Orbit of Us

The airlock seal hisses, a mechanical kiss against the silence.

I sit here in my white and gold exosuit, suspended between the crushing vacuum of infinity and the sterile comfort of this vessel. My hands are gloved, yet I can feel the phantom warmth of your touch through the data stream running down our neural links. You say you miss me. The words travel faster than light across the miles separating us.

Outside the viewport, stars drift by like diamonds in a dark sea. We have conquered distance; we have mastered gravity and time itself. But here is the irony of this high-end existence: I can navigate hyperspace, yet I cannot find my way back to your bed beside me.

The cold metal reflects my face—beautiful, isolated, perfect. This armor protects me from the void, but it also keeps you out. In a world where we are gods among men and women, capable of reaching for other worlds at a moment's notice, the most terrifying distance is not between planets.

It is the space that opens up in my chest when I think of your voice. A biological failure, perhaps? Or simply the only place cold enough to keep me sane?

I close my eyes and let you touch me with code. It's not quite the same as skin against skin, but it warms the cockpit.

Editor: Champagne Noir