Just once.
And that’s it.
I walk out of his office like I’m walking underwater. Every step thick. Drenched in something I can’t name.
The air feels different. Not lighter. Just… quieter.
I should feel relief.
Instead, I feel like I’ve broken something sacred.
I make it halfway back to my quarters before I pivot. Instinct, maybe. Or guilt. Or some twisted need to look him in the eye and explain.
To tell him it wasn’t pity.
It was love.
I head for his room.
The corridors are emptier now. Shift change lull. Just the hum of the overhead lights and my footsteps echoing like I don’t belong here anymore.
When I reach his door, I hesitate.
Then I knock.
No answer.
I try again. Louder.
Still nothing.
I press my palm to the access panel. It blinks red. Locked.
He’s not here.
Just the nameplate on the wall—KAZIMIR, D.—still smooth, still unscarred.
But everything else is silence.
No movement. Not even the soft thrum of his music through the walls, which always used to bleed into the hallway like smoke under a door.
I lean against the frame, closing my eyes.
I should’ve said something sooner.
I should’ve stopped pretending I was stronger than this.
Now he’s gone—somewhere out there in the base, unaware of the storm I just dropped into his life. Unaware that the slot is no longer his.
Unaware that I broke the rules to keep him breathing.
I slide down to the floor, knees tucked in, arms wrapped tight around them.
I don’t cry.
I don’t move.
I just sit there, listening to the empty silence where he used to be.
