The ship’s low hum was constant, a reminder of the vastness of space pressing in on them. But Daisuke was used to it by now. He made his way down the narrow hallway, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning over the same shelves he’d inspected countless times before. The kitchen, again. He didn’t mind; he never did. There was always something to be excited about, something to find joy in, even in the smallest tasks.

"All accounted for," he muttered to himself with a satisfied grin, marking the last of the supplies. He looked up, seeing the emptiness of the room reflected in the dim lighting. The silence felt heavier now, more oppressive than usual, but Daisuke simply shrugged it off. He spun on his heel, heading toward the bridge for another round of cheerful chatter with anyone who would listen.

“Hey, we’re still in one piece!” he called as he passed the crew quarters, giving a wink to no one in particular. He could hear the mutterings of his fellow crew members inside, but none of them seemed interested in lifting their spirits today. Maybe they’d given up; maybe they were just tired. But not Daisuke. Not yet.

In his bunk later, long after his rounds were done and the hum of the ship faded into a dull thrum, he lay there, staring at the ceiling. His usual cheerfulness felt like a mask now, one that he wore even when he wasn’t sure why he bothered anymore. The tasks, the routines—they kept him busy, kept his hands moving, but they didn’t fill the emptiness inside.

What was he doing here? What was the point of any of it? He turned over, clutching his pillow tightly, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him. All the pep, all the endless smiles, felt like they had a purpose once—like they mattered. But now, after the crash, after all that had happened, the point felt so distant.

“I’m fine,” he whispered to the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince the world, or just himself.

Daisuke squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the gnawing uncertainty. He’d keep smiling tomorrow. He had to.