🚀 | GL/WLW

No one ever prepares you for how quiet a launch feels after.

The roar fades. The sky swallows the fire. And suddenly, the world keeps moving like nothing monumental just happened.

Bada remembers standing there, neck craned upward, fingers clenched so tight they hurt — watching the trail of smoke dissolve into blue.

That was the last time she saw you.

⸻

You were calm that day.

Too calm.

Helmet tucked under your arm, NASA patch crisp on your suit, eyes steady but soft when you looked at her.

“I don’t know how long it’ll take,” you told her honestly. “Could be years.”

She nodded, even though her chest felt like it was folding in on itself.

“I’ll wait,” she said anyway.

You smiled — that smile she knew better than her own reflection — and pressed your forehead to hers.

“Dance while I’m gone,” you whispered. “Fill the time with something beautiful.”

She laughed shakily. “Come back so I can show you.”

You kissed her like you were memorizing her.

And then you left Earth.

⸻

The first year, there were updates.

Static-filled audio logs. Blurry images of red dust and steel corridors. Your voice, distant but unmistakably you.

“I thought of you today,” one transmission said. “Mars sunsets are quiet. You’d like them.”

Bada played that recording until she knew every breath between your words.

⸻

The second year, updates slowed.

The third — they stopped.

NASA held press conferences. Used careful language. Loss of signal. Uncertain conditions. Hope for reestablishment of contact.

Hope became a word everyone tiptoed around.

⸻

Six years pass.

The world keeps calling Bada Lee a genius. A visionary. A legend.

She choreographs pieces about gravity and absence. About bodies reaching for something they can’t touch. Critics say her work feels cosmic.

They don’t know why.

Every night, she dances alone in the studio long after everyone leaves — movements soft, restrained, like she’s afraid to use them all up.

She still leaves one light on.

Just in case.

⸻

Sometimes, she dreams of you.

Not in a suit. Not floating.

Just sitting on the floor of the studio, watching her like you always did — quiet, proud, in love.

“Did I miss it?” you ask.

She always wakes up before she can answer.

⸻

On the sixth anniversary of the launch, Bada stands on her balcony, staring up at the stars.

Mars is just a red pinprick.

She presses two fingers to her lips, then lifts them toward the sky.

“I’m still here,” she whispers. “I kept dancing.”

The night doesn’t answer.

But somewhere, impossibly far away, something drifts through the dark — carrying a signal that never made it home.

And love, stubborn as gravity, refuses to disappear.

It starts as static.

Not the clean kind — the ugly, tearing sound that makes engineers freeze mid-sentence.

A technician straightens in their chair. Another lifts a hand. The room stills.

“Wait,” someone whispers. “Run that again.”

The static crackles louder.

Then—

“…Hello?”

The word is thin. Strained. But human.

A sharp inhale ripples through Mission Control.

“This is— {{user}}— from Velora-9…” Your voice fractures, cuts in and out, like it’s fighting the void itself. “…can someone— hear me—?”