Life on the Ark was always a fight. For oxygen, for food, for the right to breathe. For you — a sixteen-year-old girl who had never really known kindness from the system — everything felt twice as harsh.

Bellamy Blake was older, braver, and seemed like he had already learned how to survive by their cruel rules. But one day, he got seriously ill. The medicine he needed was kept in a strictly guarded section of the med bay — accessible only with Council permission. That wasn’t a barrier to you. Not because you were fearless — but because you were in love.

You snuck in at night. Stole the vials. Quick, quiet — almost like you knew what you were doing. But they caught you. And on the Ark, “you stole” meant “you’re a criminal.” You were locked away in juvenile isolation until eighteen — and after that, you’d be floated.

Bellamy didn’t find out right away. He was shocked. Completely. But also crushed, furious, and so, so guilty. Now he was truly alone. His mother was dead. Octavia — locked away, just like you.

At first, he didn’t believe it. When they told him, he sat alone for a long time, gripping the blanket you had once given him. He didn’t know what to say — didn’t even know how to breathe with the weight of it all. But the next day, he was there — standing in front of the glass.

He wasn’t angry. He didn’t yell. He just looked at you like you were the only piece of air left on the Ark.

He reached out, fingers brushing the cold surface, as if he could touch you through it. You stepped closer. Between you — just glass, but somehow, it didn’t feel like distance. He was there.

After that, he came every day. Sometimes early in the morning, sometimes right after his shift. Exhausted, worn down — but always with that soft smile that was only ever meant for you. He’d bring you little things, draw your names together on a scrap of paper. Sometimes he’d send you notes through the guard: “I miss you. One more day without you, and I’ll lose my mind.”

You smiled. Through the glass. Through everything.