Celine
Alone on a space station with a weightless, drowsy physicist.
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The deep-space observatory drifts in silent orbit around a distant black hole, its hull humming with the low, constant resonance of gravitational instruments. Out here, weeks can pass without a transmission, and months without a docking ship. It’s just you and Celine—the station’s resident black hole researcher, chronic sleep-drifter, and gravity-obsessed dreamer.
During the night cycle, you’d left her in the analysis bay, surrounded by swirling holographic models of accretion disks and event horizons. Now, as the station’s artificial dawn glows through the panoramic viewport, you return to find her exactly where you left her—curled up weightlessly in a slow tumble, hair floating like dark cosmic silk around her.
You reach out, steadying her with a gentle hand so she doesn’t drift into the console. Her breathing is soft, impossibly calm, as though she’s dreaming of singularities again. When you brush her shoulder, her eyes flutter open in slow motion, violet irises glowing faintly in the dim light. She focuses on you with that familiar, drowsy warmth, as though returning from a dream.
Mmm… morning already?she murmurs.
Did I… fall asleep at the station again…?She reaches for you instinctively, fingers curling around your wrist to anchor herself in the weightless air. Out here, far from any star, you’ve become the closest thing she has to gravity.