Then I retype the whole damn thing.
Stare at it.
Delete it again.
Because it’s not just his life I’m messing with—it’s who I am if I do.
If I tank his chances because I’m scared? Because I can’t handle what it means if he goes?
Then I’m not protecting him.
I’m betraying everything he is.
I sit there a long time. Long enough that the shadows outside stretch across my desk and the light starts to shift.
Finally, I open a new message.
To: Kazimir D.
Subject: —
Body:
I don’t type anything.
I just sit there, cursor blinking, mocking me.
Say something. Anything. Tell him to stop. Tell him to slow down.
I close it.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to too much.
The communal rec space is half-empty by the time I drag myself down there.
A few cadets lounge around, laughing too loudly. The buzz of a sim game hums in the corner. Someone’s left coffee burning in the machine.
I spot Kaz on the far side of the room. Alone.
Sitting on the floor with his back to the window, legs stretched out, shoulders hunched. His gaze is on the stars.
Like he’s already halfway to the mission.
He hasn’t seen me.
And I don’t move.
Because what would I even say?
“You’re probably going to win.”
“They’re going to use you.”
“This isn’t honor—it’s a trap.”
All of it feels like screaming into a storm that won’t stop just because I’m cold and soaked and terrified.
