Per Aspera Ad Astra – Black Box 18

I feel it gnawing at my soul. It burns. It eats me alive.

It crawled into my subconscious, and I can no longer control my thoughts.

Do I love him, or do I just feel sorry for him? Did his story move me, or am I simply dazzled by his strength?

I can't decide, and that terrifies me. Terrifying and painful like someone dragging a lit match across my chest.

The thought that he's talking about us. That it was a message, and he knew I'd understand it. It's driving me insane.

I start typing with trembling hands.

I delete it. Immediately.

I put the phone down, turn off the light. I toss and turn. The sheets are tangled in a knot in the middle of the bed, and I'm shaking. I glance at the clock: 2:14 a.m. Great. This unbearable cold is destroying me. I swallow a few tablets, drink a mug of tea, then sink back into bed.

I kick the duvet around until it finally smooths out enough for me to pull it over myself. I'm sweating. - Don't pull the cover off yourself, just hold it together for now! - I command myself.

The medicine slowly starts to kick in. The smells and lights blur.

And then his face flashes across my mind. That smile only he has. Where is he right now, and what is he thinking? My eyes fall shut, but the thoughts stay. Like I'm somewhere between two skies - no longer on the ground, but not yet able to fly.

In the morning I jolt awake to the sound of the alarm. I jump out of bed as if nothing is wrong. That thought shatters immediately. I get dizzy, grab the wall, start coughing. I stand there for five minutes, trying to pull myself together.

I have to go in to work. I have an important meeting. My project, the one I've been working on for months. I need to be there.

That's still mine.

Once I get my balance back, I go out to the kitchen. I start the coffee maker, then shuffle back to my room. I sit on the edge of the bed and get ready for my morning routine. I get dressed, then step out onto the terrace.

The cold air hits my face, and the smell of fresh coffee still hangs around me. I light the first cigarette and feel the coughing begin to ease.

My thoughts race. Should I send it? Write something new? Ask to meet? Or just let it go? The book. The argument. Him.

Those two lines aren't enough. There's more in me. More venom.

My mug empties, the cigarette burns down to the filter. I pull on a cap and thread my long brown hair through the gap in the back.

My head is still hammering on the way in. Why would he stop?

At work, my attention shifts for a while. I make two teas, then step outside to the terrace with my colleague. A few minutes of laughter, then back to the silence. And in the silence, the thoughts are waiting. Why won't he tell me? Why won't he open up so I can give him a chance?

I calm myself down. These are heavy things. I know him, I can only imagine how much weight they carry.

I take out my phone and stare at the screen for a few minutes. Trying to make a decision.

The door opens. I lock the screen. My boss walks in smiling.

- Good morning! How are you all doing?
I answer with a cough.
- At this rate I'll end up sick too! - the boss says.
- Should I take sick leave? - I ask, half-joking.
- No, no, stay. A little cold doesn't scare me.

Only the clatter of keys and the clicking of a mouse. I sit in front of the monitor, trying to write the new ad copy, but my mind is elsewhere. I take out my phone, read what I wrote. Delete it. Type again.

I toss the phone on the desk. An hour later, a ping.

The blood rushes straight to my head. The office silence is shattered by the sound of my phone. He's calling. I decline, red-faced. He calls again. I decline again. Ten minutes later, it rings again. The others were already laughing at me, but I swipe firmly toward the red icon on the screen.

My blood pressure is through the roof. I grab my jacket and head out to the terrace. The air is cold and sharp. The smoke from my cigarette dissolves as I rework the message and continue.

I send it. A few minutes later, a reply.

Controlling son of a bitch. That's it. Nobody won.

The next day I go into work without makeup, in baggy jeans and a red hoodie. I'm feeling a little better, but I'm saving my energy for the evening.

In the afternoon my colleague and I head home together. We were still laughing about something as we came out of the building when she says: - You know, that's how your pilot should look too, instead of just constantly making you angry!

I look up, and my feet stop dead. Standing there was a 187cm man with black hair and a beard, in uniform. Perfectly pressed navy trousers, confident posture, cold black eyes. His jacket open, the sleeve of his blazer showing four gold stripes underneath. The shirt pulled tight against his frame.

My pilot…