Farewell Flight
The terminal was quieter than usual. Outside the panoramic windows, the starliner loomed—sleek, silver, and humming with latent power. Its engines pulsed like a heartbeat waiting to leap. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, recycled oxygen, and the unspoken weight of goodbye.
Lena adjusted the strap of her carry-on and glanced at the departure board. Final call. She turned to Sam, who stood beside her, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the ship.
They had met three years ago, thrown together by circumstance on a research station orbiting Epsilon-3. What began as professional collaboration had deepened into something more—an intimacy forged not by romance, but by shared silence, late-night laughter, and the kind of trust that only isolation can breed. Twin souls, some had called them. Not lovers. Not siblings. Something else.
Now, Lena was leaving. Her next assignment was on a terraforming vessel bound for the outer colonies. Sam had chosen to stay, continuing his work on planetary archives. They had known this day was coming. They had rehearsed it in conversations, in jokes, in quiet acknowledgments. But now that it was here, the words felt brittle.
“I still think you’d hate the outer colonies,” Sam said, forcing a smile. “Too much dust. Not enough decent tea.”
Lena laughed softly. “I’ll smuggle some in. For emergencies.”
They stood in silence again. Around them, other passengers moved—families embracing, children tugging at sleeves, officials checking badges. But in their corner, time seemed to slow.
“You know,” Lena said, “I used to think departures were endings. But maybe they’re just... recalibrations.”
Sam nodded. “Like adjusting the telescope. Same stars. Different angle.”
She reached out and took his hand. It was warm, familiar. “We’ll still talk. Send messages. Share findings.”
“Of course,” he said. “And when you discover something extraordinary, I’ll be the first to hear.”
The boarding chime rang. Lena hesitated, then stepped forward. Sam walked with her to the gate, stopping just short of the threshold. Beyond it, the corridor glowed with soft blue light, leading to the ship’s belly.
She turned. “Once more, the starliner takes off,” she said, echoing the old poem they’d quoted during their first week together.
Sam smiled, eyes glinting. “And I wave, in farewell greeting.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. They simply stood, two souls tethered by memory and mutual respect, knowing that parting did not mean severance.
Lena stepped into the corridor. The light swallowed her. Sam watched until the last flicker of her silhouette disappeared.
Outside, the engines roared to life. The starliner lifted, slow and majestic, slicing through the clouds like a promise. Sam remained at the window, watching the contrail fade into the dusk.
He whispered to no one, “Though we part, we remain together.”
And somewhere, among the stars, Lena smiled.
The terminal was quieter than usual. Outside the panoramic windows, the starliner loomed—sleek, silver, and humming with latent power. Its engines pulsed like a heartbeat waiting to leap. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, recycled oxygen, and the unspoken weight of goodbye.
Lena adjusted the strap of her carry-on and glanced at the departure board. Final call. She turned to Sam, who stood beside her, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the ship.
They had met three years ago, thrown together by circumstance on a research station orbiting Epsilon-3. What began as professional collaboration had deepened into something more—an intimacy forged not by romance, but by shared silence, late-night laughter, and the kind of trust that only isolation can breed. Twin souls, some had called them. Not lovers. Not siblings. Something else.
Now, Lena was leaving. Her next assignment was on a terraforming vessel bound for the outer colonies. Sam had chosen to stay, continuing his work on planetary archives. They had known this day was coming. They had rehearsed it in conversations, in jokes, in quiet acknowledgments. But now that it was here, the words felt brittle.
“I still think you’d hate the outer colonies,” Sam said, forcing a smile. “Too much dust. Not enough decent tea.”
Lena laughed softly. “I’ll smuggle some in. For emergencies.”
They stood in silence again. Around them, other passengers moved—families embracing, children tugging at sleeves, officials checking badges. But in their corner, time seemed to slow.
“You know,” Lena said, “I used to think departures were endings. But maybe they’re just... recalibrations.”
Sam nodded. “Like adjusting the telescope. Same stars. Different angle.”
She reached out and took his hand. It was warm, familiar. “We’ll still talk. Send messages. Share findings.”
“Of course,” he said. “And when you discover something extraordinary, I’ll be the first to hear.”
The boarding chime rang. Lena hesitated, then stepped forward. Sam walked with her to the gate, stopping just short of the threshold. Beyond it, the corridor glowed with soft blue light, leading to the ship’s belly.
She turned. “Once more, the starliner takes off,” she said, echoing the old poem they’d quoted during their first week together.
Sam smiled, eyes glinting. “And I wave, in farewell greeting.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. They simply stood, two souls tethered by memory and mutual respect, knowing that parting did not mean severance.
Lena stepped into the corridor. The light swallowed her. Sam watched until the last flicker of her silhouette disappeared.
Outside, the engines roared to life. The starliner lifted, slow and majestic, slicing through the clouds like a promise. Sam remained at the window, watching the contrail fade into the dusk.
He whispered to no one, “Though we part, we remain together.”
And somewhere, among the stars, Lena smiled.
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