Scene One
The star outside her window was dying. Maya stood in the observation deck of the orbital colony and watched as its light flickered with unnatural rhythms, as though it were trying to breathe in a universe that had already decided to let it fade. The researchers called it a "red giant entering instability phase." To Maya, it looked like a wounded creature, straining to stay alive. She pressed her palm against the transparent alloy of the viewing glass and felt the faint hum of the station's stabilizers shivering beneath her skin. That hum was constant, reliable—unlike the steady unraveling inside her chest.
The station's corridors behind her were alive with activity: technicians in silver uniforms running diagnostics, scientists murmuring about data spikes, engineers arguing about power draw. But none of that noise mattered to Maya. She had lived in this metal cocoon for six years, orbiting a sun that had only centuries left to live, dedicating her youth to research that might never matter. She had published papers, solved equations, and written theories that gained recognition across the galaxies—but all of it felt hollow. The truth was simple: the one thing that had once made her feel alive had abandoned her.
She closed her eyes, her breath fogging slightly against the glass. Memory clawed its way back uninvited—the sound of laughter echoing in a corridor years ago, the taste of stolen kisses beneath the artificial light of a younger, smaller station. She had sworn she would not think of him anymore, but his absence filled the air like radiation: invisible, inescapable, deadly to the heart. She told herself she had forgotten. She told herself she had moved on. But every time she saw the dying star, she thought of him—because he, too, had burned bright and then vanished, leaving only remnants behind.
"Maya," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned sharply to see Dr. Rivan, the lead astrophysicist, striding toward her with a tablet clutched to his chest. His brows were furrowed with the kind of concern that usually meant bad news. "We've detected something new in the data streams. The interference patterns have doubled in amplitude overnight."
Maya straightened, tugging her lab coat tighter as if armor could be woven from fabric. "From the star?"
"No. From the region beyond." Rivan hesitated, lowering his voice. "It doesn't match any known pulsar or cosmic radiation pattern. It almost looks intentional."
A ripple of unease shivered through her. Intentional. That word carried weight. It implied agency, intelligence, a presence out there in the void. She wanted to dismiss it—Rivan was prone to exaggeration—but the memory of the strange readings from last week echoed in her mind. Disturbances in their long-range scans, fragments of signals that didn't belong. "I'll analyze the data," she said finally, forcing composure. "We can't jump to conclusions."
"Good." He gave her a tight nod, but before turning away, he studied her expression with quiet curiosity. "You've been restless lately. Is something distracting you?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. How could she explain that distraction was too small a word for what gnawed at her? That every hum of the station reminded her of footsteps that no longer echoed beside hers? That the dying star outside mirrored the hollow collapse within her heart? Instead, she forced a thin smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
Rivan didn't press further, thankfully. He walked away, his boots clanging against the deck. Maya exhaled slowly, her chest tightening as she turned back to the star. Tired. That was the truth, wasn't it? Tired of pretending, tired of carrying the silence of unanswered questions, tired of wondering why he had left without explanation.
She made her way back through the station's winding corridors, past hydroponic gardens glowing green under UV lamps, past the mess hall where voices of colleagues rose in laughter. She didn't join them. She rarely did anymore. Instead, she retreated to her quarters, a modest cube of metal and glass tucked along the colony's outer ring. The door sealed shut behind her with a hiss, cutting her off from the world.
Her room was sparse: a narrow bunk, a desk cluttered with datapads, a shelf of worn paper books she refused to part with even in the digital age. She lowered herself onto the bunk, pulling out one of the books—a volume of poetry written centuries ago on Earth. She opened it at random, scanning lines about love and longing, about lovers separated by oceans and wars. The words felt cruelly relevant. Her fingers trembled as she traced the ink on the page.
"Why did you leave me?" she whispered aloud to the empty room, though she had asked the question a thousand times in silence. No answer came, only the hum of recycled air and the distant rumble of engines.
Her console beeped, pulling her from her reverie. A message. She leaned forward and tapped the screen. The sender's code was scrambled, unreadable. The text was short, cryptic: "Maya. I'm coming. Don't turn away."
Her breath caught. Her heart lurched. The console blurred as if her eyes couldn't decide whether to believe what they saw. She read it again, and again, her fingers tightening against the edge of the desk. I'm coming.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Only one person in the universe would send such a message. Only one who had left her without explanation, who had haunted her every lonely night on this cold station. Alexander.
The name surged in her mind like fire through dry fields. She hadn't spoken it in years, hadn't allowed herself the luxury. And now, after all this time, after all her questions and aching silences, he was coming back?
Her hands trembled so violently she had to press them against her knees to steady herself. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry, to throw the console across the room and then cradle it like a holy relic. Every part of her screamed against the possibility of hope—because hope was dangerous, more dangerous than any dying star or cosmic signal.
And yet… he was coming.
Maya stared out the narrow window of her quarters. The dying star pulsed faintly in the darkness, its light stuttering like a broken heartbeat. She pressed her hand to the glass, whispering his name again. "Alexander…"
The hum of the station surrounded her. The emptiness of six long years pressed down on her chest. And yet for the first time in forever, the silence inside her heart shifted, cracked, and let in a sliver of dangerous light.
Scene Two
The docking bay was colder than usual, though Maya suspected the chill had little to do with failing climate controls and everything to do with the pounding of her own blood. She stood with the other senior officers, her hands clasped behind her back in practiced composure, her white uniform spotless despite the tremor in her fingers. Around them, the metallic cavern of the bay pulsed with activity: engineers adjusting seals, security officers running scans, technicians aligning docking clamps with precise movements. The air vibrated with the hiss of hydraulics and the low thrum of engines approaching.
She told herself she was here out of duty, that her presence was required whenever an envoy from the Interstellar Council arrived. But deep down she knew the truth. She was here because of the message. I'm coming. Don't turn away. Her breath hitched at the memory of those words. Six years of silence shattered by a handful of letters, and still her heart betrayed her, racing as if she were a girl again.
The great outer doors opened, and the shuttle glided inside on beams of light. Its hull gleamed silver, adorned with the insignia of the Council—a constellation surrounded by a ring. The ship settled with a hiss of compressed air, and the gangway extended like a beckoning tongue. The hiss of pressure equalization filled the bay. Every muscle in Maya's body coiled, bracing.
When the doors finally parted, the delegation stepped out. Three figures in black uniforms trimmed with gold. They moved with an elegance that came only from power—diplomats and military officers accustomed to the weight of entire worlds bowing to their decisions. The first two she did not know. The third… she could never mistake.
Alexander Kael.
Time had carved changes into him, yet he was painfully, undeniably the same. His tall frame carried the easy strength she remembered, though now his shoulders bore the rigid tension of command. His hair, once unruly and falling into his eyes, was cropped shorter, streaked faintly with silver. His jaw was harder, sharper, his expression restrained. But his eyes… gods, his eyes were unchanged. That storm-gray gaze swept the bay, cool and unreadable, until it landed on her. And then, for the briefest second, something cracked. His mask slipped, and she saw the Alexander who had once whispered promises against her skin.
Her chest constricted. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to move, not to betray the rush of heat that surged through her veins. Six years of silence deserved no welcome. Six years of abandonment did not grant him the right to unravel her in seconds.
He inclined his head to the assembled officers, his voice calm and commanding. "Commander Alexander Kael, envoy of the Interstellar Council. We thank you for your hospitality."
The station's governor stepped forward with the expected formalities, shaking hands, exchanging rehearsed words. Maya barely heard them. Every syllable of Alexander's voice ricocheted inside her skull, scraping against memories she had buried. That voice had once been her anchor. Now it was her torment.
The governor introduced the senior staff one by one. When her name came, she stepped forward. Her boots echoed sharply against the steel, each step deliberate. She stood before him, raising her chin, schooling her features into neutrality.
"Dr. Maya Elara," the governor announced. "Our lead astrophysicist."
Alexander's eyes lingered on her face. For a heartbeat, the air between them felt electric, charged with unspoken words, memories, regrets. His lips parted slightly, as if her name had caught in his throat. "Dr. Elara," he said, his tone formal but softer than before. "It's… an honor."
Her own voice emerged steadier than she expected, though each word sliced her tongue. "Commander Kael. Welcome to our station."
Their hands did not touch. She kept hers locked at her sides, unwilling to let contact betray the fury, the longing, the confusion roiling inside her. Around them, officials smiled and nodded, oblivious to the private war igniting in the silence.
The delegation followed the governor toward the main hall, the crowd dispersing around them. Maya fell into step at the rear, too aware of Alexander walking only paces away. She could feel his presence like a gravitational pull, dragging her back into orbits she had sworn to escape. She kept her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the weight of his glances.
In the hall, the governor began the official briefing: reports of the star's instability, the unusual interference signals, the growing concerns of sabotage. Words filled the air, technical and urgent, but Maya heard little. Her attention fractured between duty and the man sitting across from her.
Alexander's gaze met hers again during the discussion. Brief, searing, impossible to hold. He looked away quickly, but not before she caught the flicker of something—regret? Guilt? Pain? She couldn't tell.
When the briefing ended, the delegation was escorted to their quarters. Maya turned sharply, intent on fleeing to her lab, to bury herself in equations and numbers that could not wound her. But a voice stopped her.
"Maya."
She froze. Her name in his voice was a blade, sharp with memory. Slowly, she turned.
Alexander stood alone at the end of the corridor, the other officials gone ahead. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned. He took a step toward her, then stopped, as though afraid she might vanish if he drew too close.
"I didn't know if you'd still be here," he said quietly.
Her laugh was bitter, short. "And yet you came."
He flinched. Just barely, but she saw it. Silence stretched between them, filled with everything unspoken: the nights they had shared, the promises broken, the years lost.
Finally, she forced her voice steady. "Why now, Alexander? After everything? After six years of nothing—no word, no reason—you arrive with a title and expect me to… what? Pretend?"
His jaw tightened. His eyes searched hers, desperate, conflicted. For a moment she thought he might break, that the truth might spill out. But then his mask slid back into place. "It isn't that simple."
Her heart twisted. Fury rose, laced with despair. "It never is, is it?" She stepped back, creating distance. "Stay out of my way, Commander. I have work to do."
Before he could answer, she turned sharply and walked away, her boots ringing against the floor. She didn't look back. She couldn't. If she did, she was afraid she'd shatter.
But long after she left, Alexander remained standing in the corridor, his fists clenched, his gaze fixed on the space she had abandoned. And in the silence, he whispered words no one heard: "I never stopped."
Scene Three
The memory came unbidden that night, as Maya lay in her narrow bunk, unable to shut her eyes. The star outside pulsed faintly through her window, the light seeping across the floor like liquid fire. She pressed her hands against her face, as if she could block it all out, but the past slipped through anyway—bright, relentless, undeniable.
It had been six years earlier, long before the colony expanded into the sprawling metal labyrinth it was now. Back then, the outpost was smaller, quieter, little more than a skeleton orbiting a dangerous star. Maya had been newly arrived, her name barely known outside academic circles, her head full of theories about stellar collapse. She was nervous, eager, determined to prove herself. The halls smelled of recycled air and solder, and she had walked them with a datapad clutched tightly to her chest, rehearsing her first presentation for the research council.
She remembered the moment she saw him.
The docking bay had just received a transport shuttle, sleek and angular, its insignia foreign to her eyes. She lingered at the edge, curiosity drawing her closer as the passengers disembarked. Among them, one figure moved differently—not stiff like the officials, not distracted like the technicians. He walked with easy grace, tall and sure, his uniform dark with silver trim, the emblem of the Interstellar Council across his chest. His hair caught the artificial light, unruly in a way that seemed deliberate. But it was his eyes that stopped her: storm-gray, sharp and restless, scanning the outpost as if he already knew he would not belong.
He had caught her staring. For an instant, their gazes collided across the bay. She remembered the jolt in her chest, the quickness of her breath, the ridiculous urge to look away and the equally ridiculous refusal to do so. He tilted his head, curious, almost amused, and then turned back to his companions. She should have left it at that. She should have returned to her datapad and her equations. But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
Their second encounter was not in the sterile halls of duty but in the greenhouse dome, one of the few places on the outpost where green still grew. Maya had fled there after a grueling day, needing silence among the rows of hydroponic plants. She liked the hum of the pumps, the way leaves unfurled under artificial sun. She sat on the low bench, reviewing equations on her pad, when a shadow fell across the page.
"You don't look like a soldier," a voice said.
She startled, lifting her gaze. It was him. The stranger from the bay, uniform half-unbuttoned, leaning against the railing as if he had every right to be there.
"That's because I'm not," she replied, more sharply than intended.
He smiled faintly, unoffended. "Then you must be one of the researchers. Always buried in numbers." He gestured at her datapad. "What's so important it keeps you away from dinner?"
Maya hesitated, unused to strangers striking up conversation. "Equations. Modeling stellar core collapse."
His brow lifted. "That sounds like it might determine whether or not this station survives."
She blinked at him, surprised. Most people dismissed her work as theoretical, unglamorous compared to ship maneuvers or military strategy. But here was someone who not only listened but understood. "Eventually," she admitted. "If I can prove the star's instability timeline."
He extended a hand, the gesture both formal and oddly warm. "Alexander Kael."
She accepted it cautiously. "Maya Elara."
His grip was firm, his smile crooked. "Maya Elara. I'll remember that."
And somehow, he had.
From that evening, their paths seemed to cross more often than chance allowed. She found him lingering near the labs, pretending to study schematics while sneaking glances her way. He appeared in the cafeteria line, in the observation deck, in the narrow corridors where they brushed shoulders and exchanged half-smiles. He was an envoy, technically beyond the daily grind of the research crew, but he seemed drawn to her quiet corners.
At first, their conversations were light—banter about the station's terrible food, complaints about sleepless nights, playful debates over starship designs. But slowly, the edges softened. He asked her about Earth, about why she had chosen exile among dying stars instead of comfort on a living planet. She asked him about the Council, about the weight of carrying diplomacy across galaxies.
"You speak as if you're tired of it," she had said one night as they stood at the glass wall of the observation deck, staring out at the crimson swell of the unstable star.
"I am," he admitted softly. "Everywhere I go, I'm what they need me to be. Not who I want to be."
"And who do you want to be?" she asked.
His gaze had turned to her then, intense, unguarded. "Someone who doesn't have to walk away."
The words lodged deep inside her, even then.
Their first touch had been accidental, a brush of fingers as he handed her a datapad. She remembered the way her pulse leapt, the way he looked at her as if the universe had tilted. Their first kiss came weeks later, hidden among the towering stalks of the greenhouse plants, when laughter dissolved into silence and silence into something more dangerous. His lips had been warm, hesitant at first, then urgent, as if he had been waiting forever.
It should have been impossible—an envoy of the Council and a young scientist with no name. But impossibility had never stopped them. Nights were stolen between shifts, conversations whispered in darkened corridors, hearts bared when no one else could hear. For the first time in her life, Maya felt seen, known, wanted not for her calculations but for herself.
Yet even in those moments of joy, shadows lingered. She noticed the way Alexander's expression darkened when official messages arrived, the way he grew quiet when asked about his duties. She remembered him watching her sometimes with an intensity that seemed tinged with sorrow, as if he were memorizing her for a day he dreaded. She didn't ask then. She was afraid of the answer.
In the present, lying in her bunk, Maya pressed her hand to her chest, her breath uneven. The memory had come alive so vividly she could almost feel his warmth beside her again, almost hear his laughter echoing in the dome. It was cruel, how the past intruded now that he was back.
Her eyes burned. She had spent years building walls, telling herself she had moved on, convincing herself that equations and stars were enough. But seeing him again had torn those walls down, leaving her defenseless against memories that tasted too sweet and too bitter.
In the silence of her room, she whispered the question that had haunted her since that night long ago, the question his eyes had answered but his actions had betrayed. "Why did you walk away, Alexander?"
No answer came. Only the hum of the station, steady and indifferent, while her heart beat too fast in a room far too small.
Scene Four
The alarm sounded just before dawn cycle. A sharp, metallic wail that cut through the sleeping colony and rattled every wall. Maya bolted upright in her bunk, heart pounding, the taste of memories still bitter in her mouth. The lights in her quarters shifted from soft amber to harsh red, and the console on her desk lit with cascading warnings.
She swung her legs off the bed and tapped the screen. The data scrolled faster than her sleep-heavy eyes could follow: power fluctuations, sensor overloads, magnetic field distortions. But one message repeated itself over and over in glaring white letters.
EXTERNAL SIGNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED. SOURCE UNKNOWN.
Maya's pulse surged. This wasn't routine static. The interference patterns had been growing for weeks, but this was different—stronger, more focused, almost deliberate. She shoved into her uniform, clipped her badge to her collar, and sprinted into the corridor.
The hallways were alive with chaos. Crew members rushed past, voices clipped and urgent, boots clanging on steel. The ever-present hum of the station was broken by stuttering flickers in the lighting, as though even the circuits were nervous. Maya pushed through the crowd, making her way toward the central operations hub.
When she entered, the room was ablaze with activity. Screens displayed jagged waves of interference, red warnings pulsing across every console. Dr. Rivan stood at the main station, barking orders to technicians who looked two steps from panic.
"Maya!" he called when he saw her. "Finally. Get over here. The signals are overwhelming our sensors."
She took her position, sliding into the seat beside him, her fingers flying across the console. Data spilled onto the screen: repeating frequencies, irregular but patterned, layered on top of the natural radiation from the star. It wasn't random. It couldn't be.
"It's not noise," she murmured. "It's structured."
Rivan shot her a look. "Structured how?"
"Like… language," she said, her voice tight. "Or code. It's organized into clusters, repeating sequences. Someone—or something—is broadcasting at us."
A hush rippled through the nearby technicians, even amid the alarms. The idea was dangerous. If it was true, they weren't dealing with simple cosmic static. They were dealing with intention.
Before Rivan could reply, the doors slid open and a new presence filled the room. Maya didn't need to look up to know who it was. She felt him, the weight of him, as if the very air adjusted when he walked in.
"Commander Kael," Rivan said stiffly, acknowledging Alexander's arrival. "I wasn't informed the Council envoy would be observing."
Alexander's voice was steady, cool, and professional. "The governor requested I review any threats to the station's stability. I'll remain out of your way."
Maya's hands froze over the console. His voice again. Formal now, wrapped in command, but it still reached beneath her skin and twisted. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen, refusing to meet his gaze. Not here. Not while alarms screamed and the crew scrambled.
She focused instead on the patterns. The signals pulsed across her display, jagged yet hypnotic. She adjusted filters, running them through analysis. Her breath caught when shapes emerged—waveforms repeating with exact precision, intervals that lined up too neatly for chance.
"It's a transmission," she said aloud, her voice firmer now, cutting through the noise. "It's targeted at us."
Rivan frowned, his eyes darting across her screen. "Can you decode it?"
"Not yet. But it's… layered. Complex." She hesitated, then added quietly, "It doesn't feel human."
The room fell silent for a beat, the implications sinking in. Not human. Alien. For centuries, humanity had searched the stars for proof of other minds. Now, the dying sun itself seemed to carry their answer.
A voice behind her spoke, deep and low, close enough that it sent a shiver down her spine. "Then we're not alone."
Her hands stiffened over the console. She didn't turn. She couldn't. Alexander stood behind her, too near, his presence like gravity pressing down. She forced herself to ignore it, to keep working.
Rivan cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "Whatever it is, it's destabilizing our systems. The longer this continues, the more vulnerable we are. We need a solution."
"I'll find one," Maya said quickly, her voice clipped with determination. "I need time to isolate the patterns."
"Time is exactly what we don't have."
The intercom crackled suddenly, the governor's voice filling the room. "Report, Ops. What's happening down there? We're receiving power surges all across the outer ring."
Rivan responded with forced calm. "Unidentified interference, Governor. Dr. Elara is working to neutralize it."
"Neutralize fast," the governor snapped. "We can't afford a systems failure this close to the star."
The line went dead.
Maya's fingers flew, rewriting algorithms, filtering noise, searching for gaps. The signals clawed at her processors, relentless, adaptive, as if they knew she was trying to peel them apart. Sweat slicked her palms. Her heart pounded. She muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to the stubborn equations. "Come on, come on…"
And then—there it was. A thread. A faint seam in the pattern. She seized it, tugged, and the waveform shifted. For an instant, the interference cleared, screens flickering back to normal. The alarms quieted, the hum of the station steady again.
A cheer erupted from the technicians. Rivan clapped her shoulder, relief in his eyes. "Good work, Maya."
But her victory was short. The signals surged back with renewed force, sharper this time, almost… angry. Systems blinked red again. She cursed under her breath.
"They're adapting," she said. "Whoever's sending this—whatever it is—it knows we're trying to stop it."
The weight of those words settled like a stone over the room. Adaptation meant intelligence. Awareness. A game being played in real time.
Behind her, Alexander finally spoke again, his tone quieter, more personal. "Maya."
Her name on his lips again. She closed her eyes, bracing herself, then forced herself to look at him at last. His face was lit by the pulsing red of the warning lights, his gray eyes intense, filled with something she couldn't read.
"This is only the beginning," he said softly.
For a heartbeat, she forgot the chaos around them. Forgot the alarms, the star, the signals clawing at their systems. All she saw was the man who had once held her heart, standing in front of her as if six years had been a blink.
And for the first time, terror and longing tangled together in her chest.
Scene Five
The alarms had finally gone silent. For now, at least. The interference signals ebbed like a receding tide, leaving the station bruised but standing. Lights steadied overhead, consoles returned to their usual hum, and the crew dispersed in exhausted relief. Rivan ordered rotations, insisting the night cycle resume despite the lingering unease. "We can't burn ourselves out before we understand what we're facing," he said, though his eyes betrayed his worry.
Maya lingered at her console long after the others had left. The data still glowed across the screen, those jagged, mocking waveforms seared into her mind. She had managed to weaken the surge, but not stop it. Whatever intelligence lay behind the interference had only retreated, not disappeared.
Her fingers hovered over the keys, then stilled. She was too tired, her mind clouded with exhaustion. Numbers blurred. Patterns slipped away like smoke. She closed her eyes, inhaled the stale recycled air, and let her hands fall to her lap.
"You shouldn't stay here alone."
Her eyes snapped open. Alexander's voice again. She turned, and there he was—leaning casually against the doorway as though he belonged in her world, as though six years of silence hadn't carved a canyon between them. His uniform was still crisp despite the chaos, but fatigue shadowed his face. Even tired, he carried himself with the same steady strength that had once anchored her.
"I don't need your concern," she said, sharper than intended.
He didn't flinch. He stepped inside, the door hissing shut behind him. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, as if his presence bent gravity itself.
"You've been working nonstop," he said. "You'll collapse if you keep pushing like this."
"I'll collapse if this station fails," she shot back. "We're orbiting a dying star, Alexander. There's no margin for rest."
His jaw tightened at the way she said his name—clipped, almost like a weapon. For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, but then his expression softened. "You haven't changed."
Maya laughed bitterly. "No? Because it seems like you don't know me at all anymore."
The silence that followed was raw, heavy. He took a slow step toward her, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the faint scar near his temple she didn't remember, the way new lines had etched themselves around his eyes. He had lived six years she hadn't seen, and the distance between them was more than time.
"Maya," he said quietly, almost pleading.
Her throat constricted. She stood abruptly, forcing space between them. "Don't. Don't say my name like that. Not after everything."
He froze, his gaze pained, but she didn't stop. The words tumbled out, years of silence breaking loose.
"You left. No explanation. No message. Nothing. Do you know what that does to someone? To wake up every day wondering if you weren't enough, if you were just… a mistake?" Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. "I asked myself a thousand times why. Why you disappeared. Why you couldn't even say goodbye."
Her chest heaved with the weight of it, her hands trembling at her sides. She had sworn she would never bare herself to him again, but the anger and grief boiled too close to the surface.
Alexander stood motionless, his gray eyes dark with storm. For a heartbeat, she thought he would finally give her the truth, that the silence of six years would end in this room. But instead, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"It wasn't simple," he said softly.
Maya's breath caught, fury flashing hot. "Don't you dare. Don't stand there and tell me it wasn't simple. You left. That's simple enough."
"I did what I had to," he said, his voice low, strained, as though he were holding back something dangerous.
Her nails dug into her palms. "Then tell me why! Tell me what reason was worth shattering us. What reason was worth breaking me."
The silence that followed was unbearable. He looked at her as though he might reach for her, as though the words perched on the edge of his tongue. But then he broke the gaze, looking away, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.
"I can't," he whispered.
Her heart plummeted. The anger drained, leaving only hollow ache. Six years of waiting, of unanswered questions, and still—nothing. Not even now.
"Then we're done here," she said, her voice flat, brittle. She turned back to her console, forcing her trembling hands to touch the keys, to pretend she was working, to hide the way her chest threatened to collapse.
Behind her, silence stretched. She didn't look. She couldn't. If she did, she was afraid she'd see the man who had once been her everything standing there like a ghost, and she would break.
Finally, the door hissed open, then shut. He was gone.
Maya pressed her forehead to the console, her eyes burning, her breath ragged. She had demanded the truth, begged for a reason. And still he had given her only silence.
She whispered into the empty room, words that tasted like both curse and prayer. "You left me for what reasons, Alexander?"
The hum of the station offered no reply.
But outside the viewport, the dying star pulsed once more, its light flickering in strange, deliberate patterns—as though the universe itself was listening.