He liked being on the rooftop.
Not because it was beautiful — though the city truly did look impressive from above — but because it was closer to the sky.
The young man lay on the cold surface, his hands folded behind his head, staring upward. The transparent dome of the protective field made the sky slightly blurred, but the stars were still visible. Real ones, not holograms.
"You're here again," a voice said.
He didn't even turn his head.
"Where else would I be?"
The girl walked closer and sat down beside him, pulling her knees to her chest. Her hair swayed slightly in the gentle air currents created by the field.
"Normal people go rest after classes. Or at least sleep."
"Normal people, yes," he smirked. "I'm not one of them."
He was nineteen.
A student at the Institute of Technology, Faculty of Interplanetary Systems. Not a top student, but not falling behind either. An ordinary guy with an ordinary life: friends, studies, the occasional party, pretty girls.
And one peculiarity.
Space.
Since childhood, he had been drawn to the stars. Not to flying — no. To the very concept of the Universe. To the idea that somewhere out there existed other worlds, other forms of life, other paths of development.
"Thinking about your galaxies again?" she asked, squinting.
"Universes," he corrected. "Galaxies are too few."
She laughed.
"One day you'll fly away and abandon us all."
He didn't answer.
Not because he didn't know what to say.
But because at that moment, a thin ripple ran across the protective dome.
"Did you see that?" she frowned.
"Yes."
The ripple vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"A field malfunction?"
"Maybe," he said — but something inside him twinged.
Not fear.
More like… a sense of wrongness.
The communicator on his wrist vibrated. Breaking news.
"An incident has been recorded at the orbital station Helios. Communication temporarily lost."
"Another accident?" the girl sighed. "There've been too many lately."
He watched the scrolling text and, for some reason, felt that this wasn't just an accident.
Somewhere far away, beyond the atmosphere, something was moving.
Not a ship.
Not an asteroid.
Something else.
"Let's go," he said, standing up. "We've got an early day tomorrow."
They left the rooftop, leaving the sky behind.
Neither of them knew it had been the last truly ordinary day.
---
Drawn to the Sky
Morning began as usual.
Too usual.
The alarm went off at exactly seven, just like always. Outside the window — the familiar hum of the city, soft and steady, like the breathing of a massive living organism. Traffic corridors were already filled with streams of vehicles, and above them, on low orbit, cargo platforms glided slowly by.
He turned off the alarm and lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling.
He had dreamed of space.
Not of flight.
Not of ships.
Emptiness.
Pure, endless, calm.
And for some reason, the dream left behind a strange feeling — as if he had missed something important.
"Get it together," he muttered, getting up.
Shower, breakfast, a brief glance in the mirror. An ordinary guy. Nothing special. No sign of a future hero, no hint that the world was about to change.
The institute greeted him with noise and bustle.
Students hurried to classes, argued, laughed, discussed projects and news. Life moved along its steady, predictable, reliable path.
"Hey, star-gazer," someone called from behind.
He turned. One of his friends was approaching — tall, always confident, with a perpetual grin.
"Have you seen the internship list?"
"Not yet."
"They'll definitely take you. You're the only one who willingly digs through ancient archive data."
"Not ancient," he sighed. "Just… forgotten."
That was true.
While others focused on new engine models and weapons platforms, he was drawn to old projects — humanity's first deep-space experiments, classified programs, strange records that had never been explained.
He liked searching for gaps.
During the lecture, he barely listened to the professor. Formulas, diagrams, schematics changed on the screen, but his gaze kept drifting to the massive panoramic window.
Beyond the transparent dome hung the sky.
"You're not here again," the girl beside him whispered. The same one from the rooftop.
He smiled faintly.
"And you?"
"I'm here. But I think it's cramped for you."
The words struck home.
Not because they were hurtful — but because they were accurate.
After classes, he headed to the institute's archive sector. Almost no one went there. Old terminals, restricted access, records long deemed irrelevant.
That was where he felt… right.
He activated a terminal and began reviewing old mission reports. Lost probes. Strange trajectory deviations. Unexplained interference.
And then — that familiar sensation.
The screen flickered for a second.
Just a moment.
But it was enough to make him tense.
"A glitch?" he muttered.
The logs showed nothing.
Yet deep in his mind, the same feeling from the rooftop returned:
as if someone were watching.
He shut down the terminal quickly.
Nonsense.
But as he left the archive, it seemed to him that his reflection in the dark glass lingered a fraction of a second longer than it should have.
That evening, he returned to the rooftop.
Alone.
The city below lived its life. Light, movement, noise. Everything was in place. Everything was normal.
And yet…
He looked at the stars and quietly said:
"If there really is someone else out there… I wonder if they're looking at us the same way?"
Space did not answer.
But somewhere very far away, something slowly, almost imperceptibly,
was drawing closer.
---
Those Nearby
Sometimes he caught himself thinking that days like these made up most of life.
Not events.
Not catastrophes.
But ordinary moments that, for some reason, were remembered most vividly.
They sat in a small café near the institute. Panoramic windows overlooked a transit highway, where streams of vehicles slid through the air like fish in a river. Inside it was warm, noisy, and… calm.
"Seriously," one of his friends said, leaning back, "if they send us for practice to the orbital sector, I'm staying there. Earth's already too cramped."
"You just want to brag that you live higher than everyone else," the girl across from him smirked.
"And what's wrong with that?"
He listened with half an ear, slowly stirring his drink. These conversations repeated often: who wanted to go where, who would become what, who would achieve what. The future seemed clear, almost scheduled point by point.
And yet it stirred something strange inside him.
"And you?" someone suddenly asked. "Where do you want to go?"
He looked up.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But definitely not here."
"Oho," his friend drawled. "Sounds dramatic."
"Not dramatic," he shook his head. "Just… I feel like there's something more beyond all this. Not a job. Not a career. Meaning."
A brief silence fell.
"You're talking about the stars again," she said quietly, without mockery.
He looked at her. She was watching him closely, as if trying to understand whether he was joking or serious.
"Yes," he said. "About them."
They didn't part right away after the café. They walked through the evening campus, where soft lamplight reflected off glass domes and metal structures. Music drifted from afar; someone laughed, someone argued.
Life was… alive.
He lagged behind and stopped at the edge of an observation platform. Below, the city sank downward; above, the sky opened up. Real, without screens or projections.
"You always look like you're about to leave," she said, stepping beside him.
"And you always sound like you want me to stay."
She smiled faintly.
"Maybe."
They fell silent. It wasn't awkward — more like comfortable. In moments like these, words were unnecessary.
"If one day I really fly away…" he began, then stopped.
"Then just come back," she said calmly. "At least once."
He wanted to reply. To say something confident. A promise people usually give in moments like this.
But he couldn't.
Because somewhere deep inside, he felt it:
if he truly left — there might be no road back.
Later that night, he returned to his dorm room. Dropped his backpack, sat on the bed, and activated the terminal. The screen glowed with soft light.
The news played in the background.
Ordinary.
Too ordinary.
But one line caught his eye:
"External research sector: unexplained biological anomalies recorded. Details undisclosed."
He frowned.
"Biological…?"
The line vanished, replaced by another headline.
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
Today had been good. Warm. Real.
And that was precisely why, somewhere inside,
a strange, quiet unease appeared —
as if the world was trying too hard to look normal.
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