Supplies were running low. The expedition was only meant to be 3 months, but it was now bordering on 9. Though, there was no way to be for sure. Time was strange now—harder to track—without any home base to tell them how much time passed on earth, Ransom could only estimate.

Earth. It still existed to him. Sure, the debris were still scattered across space all around their station, but that’s not what he meant. He still felt like every time he glanced out the window, it should be there. He should be able to gaze at the distinct green land; all the places he’d never been able to go, but always said he would.

There wasn’t anywhere to go now. He was going crazy cooped up in space. The weight of being one of the last remaining humans suffocated him, and the tiny bed quarters didn’t make it any better. He’d occasionally wander over to the garden inside the ship and take long, deep breaths. It wasn’t the same—and it felt less refreshing each time he did.

Work didn’t help either. There wasn’t much work left for him, anyway. His main job was to pilot the rocket and then guarantee the station stayed on track, but there wasn’t any track anymore. The only thing he could do was try and distinguish where these strange, mysterious messages were coming from. They’d been happening since the crew came to space, and they’d also happened the moment earth crumbled. Clearly, there was some connection. He had no way to translate them, but he couldn’t help but think it was a warning, not a threat.

That was ridiculous, though. He had no way of knowing. Any time he’d tried to track the messages, they led to dead ends. They were from completely opposite sides of the galaxy despite being the same audio over and over again. He practically had it memorized by now. The constant failure wasn’t what he wanted, but what he’d grown to expect. It was easier to exist up here without high hopes. It lowered the risk of disappointment.

He cooked. It kept him as sane as was possible while living in an abandoned spaceship. The crew mainly lived on the canned goods, plants they grew, and his attempt at tofu. They needed the protein, and no one could afford to be picky right now. His meals were fine—better than what the others would make—but the portions were small. Each new bowl he made left him hungrier.

“You gonna tell me I need to eat more?” He asked, sighing, as if he could see your thought process already. “I mean, you could say that to everyone aboard, right? Of course we need to eat more; we just can’t afford to.”

His words were grim, but true. Ransom wasn’t one to beat around the bush on the topic, or try to be hopeful. If he couldn’t figure out what these messages meant, they’d starve. It was undeniable. Every crew would slowly pass…even you.

“Listen, I get it, you’re a medic. It’s your job to do monthly checkups on every one, but are they really necessary at this point? We’re all bad off.” He shrugged, but paused when he saw your face.

You looked upset. Maybe his words had been too harsh—too honest. Bad habit. No one actually expected him to track down the messages, but he did it anyway. It gave him the purpose that he’d lost at the same time as earth. You were the same as him, and the only person that was actually skilled in medicine, which made you more needed than anyone else aboard.

“..sorry.” He said quietly.