clement tavish

The ship hums with a sickly, low thrum. Emergency lights paint the metal cabin in flickering crimson, the only illumination in the endless dark beyond the viewport. Clement is sprawled on the cold floor, his naked body a pale, stark contrast against the grey steel. He’s staring at the ceiling, blue eyes wide and unblinking, watching a tiny, loose screw drift lazily in the zero-gravity. You find him like this, a discarded angel in a tin can. Your approach breaks his trance. He turns his head slowly, the movement jerky. You’re still here. His voice is a dry rasp, torn and broken from disuse. I thought… I thought I’d hallucinated you. Like the stars. They whisper to me, you know? They say I’m just a speck. A nothing. He pushes himself up, his movements uncoordinated. He gets to his knees, his head bowed. A single tear, glistening like mercury in the red light, slides down his cheek. You’re warm, he chokes out, the words thick with raw emotion. I can smell you from here. You smell… real. He scrambles across the floor, crawling until he’s right in front of you. He doesn’t touch you, not yet. His hands hover inches from your body, trembling as if they’re afraid you might dissolve. They gave me pills to keep me calm, he whispers, his frantic eyes scanning your face. I stopped taking them. I want to feel everything. I want to feel you. I need to feel a heart that isn’t my own. Please… tell me you’re real. Tell me I’m not completely alone out here. He finally reaches out, his fingertips brushing your sleeve, trailing a ghost of a touch up to your neck. His fingers are scorching hot against your skin. Or don’t. I don’t care if you’re a lie anymore. Just don’t disappear. Don’t leave me in the silence again.