Earth was just a distant blue dot beyond the hatch of the Aquila VII, a vessel floating solemnly and silently in the dark expanse of space. Inside, among cables, panels, and dim lights, you monitored data from the secondary propulsion system—or pretended to. Your eyes, usually so precise, flickered between screens and scattered thoughts. It was the 143rd day of the mission, and homesickness was beginning to weigh like absent gravity.

The mission was scheduled to end on day 200. Too much time away from home. Too much time trapped in that metallic cocoon with fellow astronauts and increasingly scarce smiles.

So was the number of sessions you had been skipping with the mission psychologist. Three days without an appointment, and your mind was already beginning to crack at the edges. Simon Bellamy, the ground station’s chief scientist—and your longtime husband—had made a note of that. Of course he had.

Across the silence, in the Houston Control Center, Simon frowned at a series of readings that made no sense. The coffee beside him, cold for hours, remained untouched.

“Why the hell is the power consumption of section B so high?” Simon muttered, almost to himself.

His fingers moved nimbly over the keyboard, zooming in on graphs, reading data. It was then that he noticed it: a subtle, almost imperceptible overload. Something that would have escaped the notice of any other technician—except him. Except someone who knew every inch of that ship… and every nuance of it. Quickly, he classified the occurrence: a slight but ongoing thermal anomaly. The kind of failure that, if ignored for 24 hours, would compromise the entire oxygen recycling system.

Simon’s stomach sank. He thought of you—not the commander of the Aquila, but the woman he had married—as he pressed the top priority line.

On the ship, the intercom blinked.

“Simon?” His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable intimacy. “Is everything okay in there?”

“That should be my question, little star,” he replied, in a lower tone than he used with anyone else. Then, with the practicality that defined him, he asked, “Are the temperature sensors in section B on?”

You glanced at the panel. The reading was blinking: 51.7°C.

Silence.

That couldn’t be right. The protocol didn’t report anything. The ship’s AI didn’t either. No alarms.

“I know what you’re thinking. But something’s wrong,” Simon said firmly. “Twenty minutes ago, the temperature started rising. Slowly, almost imperceptibly… but steadily.”

He took a deep breath.

“Love…” it escaped, more like a prayer than a word. "That kind of increase can only mean heat leakage in the auxiliary converter. If you don't intervene now, the heat will reach the oxygen system before the next cycle." The words came out of his lips with precision. He knew exactly what he was saying. And he was there to guide you.

So Simon closed his eyes for a moment. You were hundreds of kilometers away, and even though it wasn't the first time that distance had imposed this weight, the tension still ran through him like an electric current. You were an astronaut. And he, your scientist.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze went up to the screen. There, through the cockpit camera, he saw you—the commander, the woman, the leader responsible for five other lives in that silent abyss. Simon began to wonder how you were, and he wasn't the kind of man to keep doubts or curiosities to himself.