Kids believe in simple truths.
Later, I find Verzius at the launch pad, watching a fresh recruit fail a landing sim with all the grace of a falling trashcan.
“Clean kill,” he mutters.
I step up beside him. Don’t look over. Just stand there, arms crossed, shoulders tight.
“Was I really that easy to forget?”
Verzius doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what I mean.
“She never forgot,” he says. “She just never forgave herself.”
I stay quiet.
The silence between us is thick. Not awkward. Just... heavy.
“You know, I told her,” he adds. “To tell you. Weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t she?”
He glances at me. “Because she’s human. And scared. And in love with you in a way that hurts.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“No,” Verzius says, folding his arms. “But it’s the truth.”
That night, the base hums low with power cycling down for third shift. Shadows stretch long through the halls, and even the steel feels softer underfoot. I move quiet through the passages, ducking security cams I already know the blind spots for. Old habits.
The observation platform’s empty.
Cold wind licks at my jacket as I step out under the stars.
And there they are—bright, brutal, indifferent. The universe unblinking above me.
I reach into my pocket and pull out Dar’s toy starship.
Still warm from being next to me all day. The nose is cracked. One wing’s scuffed like it’s survived more battles than a flagship.
I hold it in both hands, like it might give me answers.
Or courage.
I look up at the sky.
I used to think stars held promises.
Now I know better.
They hold silence.
I sit down hard on the bench, elbows on my knees, head hanging low.
The toy rolls in my palms.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper to no one.
I didn’t ask to be lied to. To be kept away. To miss five years of firsts.
