I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
The weight of what feels like the world fills my head.
I think of my family—how I will yearn for them each second.
I sit in the room, the clock ticking on the wall.
Each passing moment feeds my uneasiness.
My thoughts drown in the relentless ticking of time.
The door beside me opens; I’m gestured to enter.
With painted steps, I slowly go in.
Inside, I’m briefed on the mission.
Each step feels more vital than the last.
I am to travel beyond where any human has gone.
Humanity will once again confront the final frontier.
That eternal void beckons us all—old and young alike.
Each face reflects something I try to read.
It speaks of hope, curiosity, even wonder. T
hey believe we’re helping the world; I believe we’re discovering others.
I look at my peers, people I’ve known for years.
Some I’ve grown to love, others I’ve learned to tolerate.
We met in training, each with dreams larger than life.
We endured conditions that made our bodies plead for mercy.
Yet we did not flinch or fall.
Even when belittled, overworked, pushed past our limits—
We became something greater than we were.
We became astronauts, trained to venture into the unknown.
The command said launch would come at dawn, and told us to rest.
We returned to quarters lined with photos and fragments of home.
Mine held a picture of my daughter—the brightest thing in my world.
Her smile could outshine any star; her face more radiant than the cosmos.
I held it close, tears stinging my eyes.
The ache of leaving her pierced deeper than expected.
The lights went out; the barracks fell to stillness.
It felt like space—a quiet we’d soon inhabit.
That night, I lay awake, thoughts racing through my head.
Humanity has existed only a moment in cosmic time.
Oceans have risen and fallen. Species born, erased.
Civilizations layered one atop another, vanishing.
But has any of it truly mattered? Where are the whys?
Do we matter in the void’s cold reach?
Are we so small that our lives barely register?
Or the only ones who dare to wonder?
Soon, I will be among the stars.
Would that make our mission noble?
Or are we all equal in the cosmos—
Measured not in glory, but in breath, memory, longing, and love?
These questions gnawed at me like embers beneath ash.
I found no answer—only silence.
Then sunrise came, and we were summoned to begin.
We walked forward, suited in resolve.
As we prepared, the others shared their hopes aloud.
Some imagined new species; others dreamed of ancient ruins.
I wished only for one thing:
To find something that sees the stars as we do.
To feel serenity in the silence.
But deep down, I knew what we all felt.
Even if unspoken, we shared one truth—
We hoped we weren’t alone.
Humans are not meant for solitude.
We are made to touch, to speak, to belong.
To share breath, laughter, warmth.
We built ships to cross oceans
Just to reach each other. N
o one longs to be truly alone—
And if someone does, I pity them.
If humanity is alone, I pity us more.
We board the ship—a tribute to imagination.
A vessel built to defy limits.
The door seals behind us—no going back.
We take our seats as countdown begins.
Some pray. Others recall family.
I look upward, full of silence and awe.
The Earth recedes, a fragile blue dot.
The vessel rises, and so do we.
The pressure crushes like a thousand stones—
Yet I rise.
The stars emerge, steady and still.
We cross the threshold of Earth’s sky.
Gravity loosens its grip; the silence grows.
I smile, thinking of her again.
The stars shimmer, radiant and unreachable.
I feel so small—yet somehow infinite.
The cosmos embraces us like a quiet hymn.
I stare through the glass as space unfolds.
For a moment, all is still.
And in that stillness, I find peace.
Unqualified. Undeniable. Whole. T
he universe holds me.
And I hold it back.
A prayer, answered in starlight.