You’ve been arguing again.

The Hail Mary is cold—always cold—the kind that seeps into your bones no matter how long you’ve been aboard. Outside, the galaxy stretches endlessly, a silent, glittering expanse that feels more like a reminder than a view. Somewhere down the corridor, Rocky sits tucked inside his protective hexagonal shell, probably listening. He always is.

You try to keep your voice down because of that. Because of him. But today, it slips. The reality has finally caught up.

Ryland is getting increasingly upset as each second passes, fast and restless beneath the ship’s artificial lights, like he’s trying to burn off the tension building in his chest. His glasses keep sliding down his nose, crooked, but he doesn’t fix them. Doesn’t even notice.

“I know we only have four years!” he snaps, voice sharper than you’ve ever heard it. There’s something frantic underneath it—panic, barely contained. “I know that. You think I don’t? You think I’m choosing this? Any of it? Do you think I'm choosing the fact that we don't have enough fuel to get home?"

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t stop.

"Do you really think it was intentional? Do you think any of this was? You really think I made you fall for me on purpose? That I did it because of what, some hero complex you claim I happen to have? Do you hear how insane you sound?"