Listen
The static hum in the back of my mind, it’s always there. A low, persistent thrum, like distant engines that never quite arrive, or a memory trying to claw its way to the surface but getting caught in the mud. It’s been years now, I think. Time, it bends. It stretches and snaps back, leaving you wondering if a decade really passed or just a particularly long Tuesday. Tonight, the hum feels louder. More insistent. It’s the kind of night where the moon is a cruel sliver, barely cutting through the perpetual haze that hangs over the city, a haze that always smells faintly of ozone and regret. And tonight, for some reason, the regret is a living thing, breathing down my neck. I can almost feel its cold breath.
It’s about Elara, always Elara. Or maybe it’s about me. About the decisions I made, the ones I didn’t. The ones I let others make for me, because it felt easier, safer. Foolish. Always foolish. I remember the day we first saw the comet. Not the big, bright, world-ender everyone panicked about. This was a smaller one, barely visible to the naked eye, a whisper in the night sky. Elara, she had this old, battered telescope, a relic from her grandfather. We’d drag it out onto the rooftop of our crumbling apartment block, ignoring the broken tiles and the persistent drip from the unit above. She’d point it at some obscure star, her breath misting in the cold air, her eyes alight with a fierce, quiet joy. “Look,” she’d murmur, her voice barely a whisper, “it’s a tiny, forgotten piece of the universe, just passing through.” And I’d look, and it wouldn’t be much, just a faint smudge, but through her eyes, it was everything. A universe in that smudge. A promise. And now, all I see is smudges. Everywhere.
We were supposed to leave. That was the plan. The ‘Great Exodus,’ they called it, a desperate, last-ditch effort to colonize Kepler-186f. A fool’s errand, some said. A beacon of hope, others insisted. For us, it was simply an escape. An escape from the city’s slow decay, from the endless surveillance, from the quiet desperation that seeped into everything. Elara, she was brilliant, you know. Not just smart in a bookish way, but truly visionary. She’d engineered a way to optimize the life support systems, to extend the voyage by another six months, enough to make the distant star a viable destination. Her work was celebrated, lauded, pushed to the front of the queue. We had berths. Two of them. Our names etched onto the manifest, a physical manifestation of our future. I remember tracing my finger over my name, then hers. A shiver, not of cold, but of something deeper, something akin to fate. Or doom.
Then came the purge. Not a sudden, violent eruption, but a slow, methodical culling. Resources were scarcer than they let on. The berths, fewer than promised. Those deemed ‘non-essential’ were quietly re-allocated. I was an artist. A storyteller. Not a scientist, not an engineer, not a pilot. Essential? Hardly. I saw it coming, a slow tide. Elara, she fought for me. God, she fought. Her voice, usually so calm, became a storm. She argued with committees, with administrators, with the cold, sterile faces of power. She pleaded. She threatened. I watched her, my heart a leaden weight in my chest, knowing it was futile. I knew what they valued. And I wasn’t it. She came back that evening, her eyes swollen, but defiant. “I found a way,” she said, her voice hoarse. “They won’t take you. Not if I give up my berth.”
The words hung in the stale air of our apartment, heavy and thick. She wouldn’t look at me, but I saw the tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders slumped despite her defiance. Give up her berth. Her life. Her future. For me. For a storyteller. The thought was a dagger, twisting. I looked at her, at the raw determination etched into her face, at the years of dreaming that shone in her tired eyes. And I made a choice. Or rather, I refused to make one. I told her no. I told her, “Don’t be ridiculous. Your work, Elara. It’s too important. The colony, it needs you.” I made it sound noble. Selfless. But underneath, a colder, darker truth festered. I was afraid. Afraid of the guilt, of the crushing weight of her sacrifice. Afraid of the impossible burden of living a life that wasn’t mine, a life bought with hers. So I pushed her. I argued. I convinced her, with words that felt like ash in my mouth, that she had to go. That I would be fine. I promised I would find a way to follow. A lie. A grand, terrible lie. And she, in her unwavering faith in me, in her love, she believed it. Or pretended to.
I stood on the viewing platform, watching her ship lift off. A pillar of fire and smoke against the bruised sky, carrying away the brightest part of my world. The engines roared, a deafening sound that vibrated through my bones, shaking me to the core. A sound that has never truly left me. I pressed my hand against the cold durasteel of the railing, tears blurring my vision. Not just for her leaving, but for the cowardice that coiled in my gut, hot and shameful. She looked back once, just before the hatch sealed, her hand pressed against the viewport, a faint, almost invisible gesture. I raised my own hand in return, a hollow echo. And then she was gone. A tiny, forgotten piece of my universe, passing through. And I was left behind. With the hum. With the ozone and the regret.
The city never fully died. It just became a ghost of itself. Buildings crumbling, automated systems failing, silence growing like a moss over everything. I live in one of the higher districts now, less polluted, less broken. I still write. Still tell stories. But they’re all tinged with that same melancholy, that same gnawing guilt. Sometimes, late at night, when the haze thins just a fraction, I look up. I search for Kepler-186f, knowing I’ll never see it, knowing it’s just a speck of light millions of miles away. A star where she might be, under a sky I’ll never breathe. And I wonder, does she look back? Does she wonder about me? Does she know the real reason I stayed? Does she hate me for it? Or has she found a new home, a new life, a new purpose, and forgotten the weak, terrified man who let her go? The man who couldn’t bear the weight of her sacrifice, choosing instead the lighter burden of his own regret. The hum grows louder. Or maybe it’s just the blood rushing in my ears, a silent scream trapped beneath the surface of everything. I still trace my name. Then hers. But now, it feels less like a promise, and more like a scar. A reminder of the weight of an unseen star, and a future I didn’t deserve, and couldn't bear to let her give.