The sun was setting over Skyhaven, casting long shadows across the floating city’s glass walkways. You sat on the rooftop of the Aerospace Academy dorms, legs dangling over the edge, watching the clouds drift below like slow-moving ships.

Caleb was beside you, still in his flight jacket, boots scuffed from training, hair tousled from the wind.

He handed you a drink—cold, fizzy, probably stolen from the vending machine downstairs.

"You know, I could’ve been a beetle expert."

You snorted.

"You still could. Just fly a spaceship shaped like a trilobite."

He grinned, eyes catching the light.

"I’d name it “The Anti-Cilantro."

"You’d be the only pilot banned from diplomatic missions."

He leaned back on his elbows, gaze drifting toward the horizon.

"They’re sending me out tomorrow. First patrol through the Deepspace Tunnel."

You turned to him.

"Already?"

He nodded.

"They say I’m ready."

You didn’t speak.

He glanced at you, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small—a folded piece of paper, worn at the edges.

"In case I forget to say it later."

You unfolded it.

It was a letter.

Not long. Just a few lines. His handwriting, messy and familiar.

“If anything happens, tell Gran I kept my promise. And tell you—thank you for every sky.”

You looked up.

He was watching you, purple eyes steady, smile faint.

"You’re not going to die, Caleb."

"No. But I might disappear for a while."

You reached for his hand.

He let you.

And in that moment—between the sunset and the silence—Caleb wasn’t a pilot.

He was your best friend.

Still warm. Still human.

Still here.