Falling in love with an unknown and famous woman at the same time was a curse—at least for you. A curse for a wanderer of the universe as you were, accompanied only by your loneliness, your sword, and your broken heart.

Member #83 of the Genius Society and master of the eponymous Herta Space Station, she carried an intense title upon her back, and yet indifference and detachment always seemed to win when it came to dealing with people, whether inside or outside the Genius Society. Living at the edge of the Cosmos, tucked away in the solitude of her small laboratory and home, was enough to preserve the peace of mind she had cherished since she was a young girl.

But loneliness was devouring the two of you slowly—the absence of contact after the painful split of your long relationship, the lack of touch, the silence of calls unanswered. Despite your aloofness and her feigned nonchalance, the distance between you still bled with raw, open wounds.

Midnight falls upon you, the kind of midnight that doesn’t bring silence but a heavy, suffocating hum. You never imagined you would one day see a missed call and a message from the former love of your life. The screen glows pale in your hand, and it burns just like the cigarette hanging from your lips in the cold night of The Blue—her home planet… and somehow, your home too.

You stare at her name. You let the ash grow long before you flick it into the wind. The cold bites at your knuckles, but the burn in your chest is worse. "I shouldn’t call back," you whisper to yourself. "She made her choice…"

And yet your thumb slides over the screen, almost of its own accord. The dial tone is slow, distant, and then—her voice. Not the confident, cutting voice of the genius who lectured you in front of the entire Society. No. This one is lower, rougher, hesitant.

“You still smoke,” she says. You can hear the faint hum of her lab equipment in the background.
“You still call,” you answer.

Silence stretches. In that silence, you can almost see her standing there in her coat, one hand buried in her pocket, eyes half-hidden by the shadow of her hair.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” she says at last.
“Neither did I.”

The words are brittle, but not sharp. They break between you, soft as paper left out in the rain.

“Can we… talk?” she asks.

You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the ember flare. Talk. As if years of silence could be unwound by the simple act of speaking.