Instead, I tilt my helmet up. The Milky Way spills across the sky like a wound. Stars so thick they look like milk, like dust, like God sneezed and forgot to clean up. I’ve seen this view a thousand times. But tonight—or whatever passes for night up here—it hits me different.
I’m First Class Engineer Saito, serial number 7783-K. I’m thirty-two thousand kilometers above the Pacific, and I’m supposed to be replacing a thermal coupling on Panel J-9. But I’ve been staring at my wrench for three minutes now, watching it float in front of my visor, because I’ve run out of reasons to turn it. firstclass pov
I should feel proud. I’m the youngest First Class in the program. I’ve logged more EVA hours than anyone under forty. My mother sends me photos of my old bedroom, which she’s turned into a yoga studio. My father still calls me “the astronaut” like it’s a cute phase I’ll grow out of. Instead, I tilt my helmet up