Because gods help me, that’s what I feel building in my throat. Not weakness. Not regret.
Shame.
The kind that stains.
Lunch is noise and chaos and recycled air. My tray clatters onto the table harder than I mean it to. I stab at the synth-meat like it insulted my ancestors. Across the mess, Yoris is laughing too loud. Telling a story I don’t want to hear.
Then I catch it. A single line. Tossed casually into the space like a grenade.
“—guess some people get their missions confused. Chasing tail instead of flight trails?—”
The table erupts in laughter.
He doesn’t even look at me when he says it.
But everyone else does.
I stand. My tray in my hand. Knuckles white.
He wants a reaction.
He’s baiting me.
And I’m damn close to giving it to him.
I drop the tray harder than necessary onto the counter, food untouched. Walk out. Fast.
I hear someone mutter “temper tantrum” as I pass.
Let them talk.
Let them all talk.
The rest of the day is a blur of movement and numbness. Training logs. Tactical review. Physical conditioning. It all folds into a haze I can’t claw out of. Every second, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For Nova to look at me like I’m a mistake. As well as Trozius to call me in and say I’m cut. Lastly, the world to tilt and spit me out.
But it doesn’t.
It just keeps spinning.
That night, I lie in my bunk staring out the porthole.
The stars are merciless tonight.
Bright. Cold. Distant.
I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s lying in her bunk with the same churn in her stomach. If she regrets it already. If she watched me spiral in the sim room and thought,I should’ve known better.
Because I did spiral.
I couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Because every second of that flight, I kept seeing her face when I left. The kiss that tasted like a goodbye. The way her voice cracked when she said she didn’t know how to do this.
And I believed her.
