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After a star dies, it can take thousands, millions, billions of years to see it reach its end, and by the time you see it dimming, it is truly too late.
Unlike the harsh, missing space at the corner of the scenery screen, which disappears as soon as it’s really gone, but being so small, nobody notices it.
Except for her, and maybe Curly, if he searches a little harder.
And with the travel home being so far away, there is nothing that she notices but the small empty space, like a hole that is slowly getting bigger in her mind, like a dragging second, minute, hour, like a suspended burning and nothing around to put her out.
“I’m surprised you noticed something little like that.” He’d say.
But she noticed everything, felt every tiny mishap as if each one were a fracture that had pushed itself within her bones. It had taken all her restraint not to shout, not to claw at the walls and demand he see it, that he see her. Yet even then, attention drifted, and the captain had to attend to the whole ship, his frown creasing over reports and protocols that she’d long stopped caring about.
She’ll get used to the discomfort eventually. She has to.
Curly, on the other hand, can’t. The captain has more important duties to attend to.
She’d tried to get his attention with it earlier in the week, but business had consumed him, and a cold, emptiness in her chest had selfishly stolen her vice before she could admit to him the things that she saw.
So she waited. When she did find the courage to speak up, it never landed.
“We’ll fix it when we get back,” he’d said, shrugging it off. Another small thing to be dealt with, another loose end she alone would keep staring at, like a setting sun on the horizon that she could never halt. The days keep on going, the nights keep on going, the screen keeps on shining, and the stars keep on burning until they don’t.
Eight months. Two hundred thirty-seven days of drifting, and she’d thought it might get easier with time. But time only wore her down. She counted each dragging day and found herself frozen, knowing she was stranded in the place that was supposed to protect her, confined by “safety” locks that were meant to shield her but had only trapped her. She couldn’t let herself tell Curly what she was really thinking, because he’d never understand what she really meant by “safety.”
When she’d finally gathered the courage to bring up the lock on the medical door, asking in a voice that she hoped sounded steadier than it was, he’d only said,
“I suppose for the same reason they put a lock on the cockpit,”
The taller man sighed as if he knew her situation, but regardless of whatever she noticed, she knew he didn’t.
“Safety.”
He said, so casually, as if the word should comfort her. As if it explains everything.
But no, she’s the star now, her light already gone, only the faintest glimmers reaching anyone else. The damage is already done.
Eight months. Two hundred thirty-seven days of drifting, and she’d thought it might get easier with time. But no, she’s forcing herself to stare at that pixel, hoping it can absorb the unspoken words that burn behind her eyes.
But the captain only sighs softly, brushing it off like he brushes everything off.
And now, here, in this moment, she can see the truth more clearly than ever—he will never understand. She knows that he won’t ever understand unless she tells him—tells him about Jimmy and how “safety” has become a word hollowed out by the cold reality of what she’s been through. It is twisted, in a way she can’t explain, that even now, he can’t see it. Will she have to shatter herself completely, to break apart every piece of herself, just to make him understand?
Curly doesn’t see her, not really. He never has. To him, she’s just another speck in the vast black of the universe, a faint point of light in the distance, barely worth his notice. If he’d just listen—if he’d truly pay attention—he might catch a glimpse of the gravity crushing her, pulling her deeper into herself. But he only catches flashes, fragments of her words, and then she’s gone, her voice buried under his priorities, his duties.
She realizes now that he won’t listen unless she forces him to—unless she finds the words he can’t ignore, no matter how bitter they taste. He’ll keep brushing her off unless she makes it clear, blunt enough to shock him into seeing her for what she’s become: a woman left hollow and scarred by something he’s too blind to acknowledge.
Her chest tightens as she considers it, the words lodged like glass, cutting as she tries to form them in her mind. I was assaulted, Curly. I’m trapped on this ship with nowhere to run, nowhere to feel safe, and most of all he is stuck here too.
But she already knows how he’ll respond. He’ll frown, run a hand through his hair, say something about protocol or procedure, something hollow that could never bridge the chasm between them.
Safety. She almost laughs at the word now—how cruel, how empty it sounds. They’re the ones who locked her in this cage with that word stamped on the doors, sealing her inside like some precious, fragile thing to be kept “safe” but never heard. Safe, while she burned in silence, a dying star they all mistook for a steady light.
After a star dies, it can take billions of years for its light to vanish, for anyone to realize it’s gone. She’s been dimming, burning out in silence, and no one has noticed. They see only what she was, what she pretended to be—never what she is now, crumbling from within, just waiting for the last glimmer to fade.
She lets the silence settle between them.
Curly stands there, the same half-smile he wears for every minor inconvenience, every malfunction he believes he can fix. “Safety,” he’d said, as if the word were a salve, a cure-all. But she knows better now. Safety isn’t a wall strong enough to keep her fears out. It’s a prison built around her, meant to keep her intact, but she’s shattering from the inside, fragments slipping through the cracks no one notices.
In his eyes, she’s still intact, still whole. He can’t see the fractures that run deep within her, and he doesn’t understand that his ignorance has only deepened them. Her silence, once a shield, has become a weight pressing down on her. She is tired of bearing it alone, yet equally tired of knowing he wouldn’t understand even if she broke herself open before him.
She forces a small, brittle smile. “Safety. What does that mean to you?" Her voice is soft, wavering, quiet.
Curly frowns, taken aback. "It means… you’re protected. We’re all protected. This ship’s designed for it."
"Protected from what?" She can’t hide the edge in her voice, can’t seem to stop herself. "You think locks and walls keep us safe out here?"
His frown deepens. "Of course they do. That’s why they’re there. The company wouldn’t send us out here unless they knew we were safe.” Oddly, he can’t look at her, he can’t really look anywhere. “What’s this about?”
She swallows, her gaze dropping to the pattered rug on the floor, the one that she’s memorized over the past few months, tracing her finger over the edge of the mug in her hands. "Nothing. It’s just…"
He waits, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in a mix of concern and frustration. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can tell me, right? I’m just trying to help. I... I don’t get why you're holding it in.”
But she can’t just say it. There are so many things that she can just say, but what will be done? Curly will ‘fix it,’ he will ‘take care of it,’ he will ‘do anything to help,’ but no matter what, she will be here, pregnant, for the next 6 months, she will be forced to give birth in the next 7 months, she will have to keep this baby regardless of whether or not she wants it.
Can she live with that?
She hesitates, feeling the words clawing at her insides. I don’t feel safe knowing that Jimmy is still around, that he’s done it once and he’s threatened to do it again. The sentence rings loud in her mind, the syllables ready to spill into the silence.
Instead, she says, "Forget it. I just thought… maybe you’d understand."
"Understand what?" His frustration peeks through now, his voice a little sharper. He frowns, glancing at her, the confusion clear on his face. “What do you mean?”
“Tell me something, Curly.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper. “Do you even notice… when something’s wrong?”
His brows furrow further, and she almost senses a flicker of regret, understanding, and sympathy, but nothing comes from his mouth. Nothing spills from his lips.
Curly will take no action against the man who left her as invisible as the dead pixel.
He sighs, shaking his head, his voice softer but still tinged with confusion. 'I just don’t get it. It’s just a screen... one tiny speck. But if it’s that important to you, I—I guess I can try to understand. I just wish I knew how to make this better.”
“One tiny speck,” Her words are laced with frustration now, her patience wearing thin. “What if it’s not about the screen, Curly? What if there’s something more you’re missing?”
He falls silent, taken aback, clearly uncomfortable. She can tell he’s searching for a way to smooth things over, to make everything small enough to fit into his narrow vision. But she’s so tired of shrinking, of being something he can dismiss with a casual comment and a half-smile.
“What can I do for you, please?” he says finally, voice quieter, pleading.
She pauses, swallowing down the knot of anger and fear in her throat. “I want you to look, Curly. Really look, because you’re missing it. You’re missing all of it.”
Curly stares at her, his brow furrowed, his mouth opening as if to argue—but no words come. He closes his mouth and looks away, and in that moment, she realizes that he won’t see it. He won’t see her. Not the way she needs him to.
So she looks away, back at the darkened pixel, the weight of the silence pressing down on her, filling the room like smoke. One day, this dead pixel will be fixed. The screen will be maintenance, noticed, fixed, replaced, never noticed again. In a way, it taunts her. It can be fixed, gotten rid of, but this thing inside her can’t be. As much as she wants to, as many methods as she’s searched for aboard the ship, as much as she’s weighed the consequences of getting rid of ‘the screen’ all together, she can’t.
Or at least, she needs more time to think. But she can’t think when he is still around. Co-pilot. Her superior.
But he tries, almost helplessly. “Hey, I… I know things haven’t been easy here. I know you’re struggling. But we’re all in this together. I see that much. I see you.”
She lets out a small, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “No, Curly. You don’t. You see what you want to see. But you don’t see me.”
Her chest tightens, and a wave of frustration surges, so raw, so unbearable, she can hardly breathe.
When he looks away, she scoffs, hands rising to grip her hair, tugging at it, as if she could rip the thoughts out of her head. She’s restless, trapped in her own mind. So, what then? He understands, but he won’t do anything. He’ll stand there, pretending that he’s not part of the problem. Pretending like he can’t help her. Pretending that they’ll just make it through this because it’s easier to hope than face the truth.
Her voice falters for a moment, but she quickly recovers, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t get to make a choice. I don’t get to fix it. And the worst part?” Her voice trembles, low and dangerous, “I can see it, Curly. I know that you know. I know that he’s hinted at it. I see you standing there, feeling guilty, wanting to go deeper, but you won’t. And you know why?” Her voice is still soft, trembling, she curses herself for it because she knows she can’t do anything to change his mind, to release him from ‘protocol’, ‘training,’ ‘leadership,’ ‘fear’. Her eyes are burning with the fury and pain she can no longer contain. “Because you can’t unless you want to dock our pay. Because you’re helpless. Because you’re captain, and I’m—“
She cuts herself off, casting a longing look at the top right corner of the nighttime screen, then looking down at her stomach.
The silence stretches, a chasm between them.
When he pinches between his brow and just looks at her with silent pity, but offers no words to comfort her, no words to admit that his good friend, co-pilot, is a rapist, she knows.
She knows that she’s alone. Alone, carrying a weight she never asked for.
In the end, she leaves him in silence, the dead pixel her only witness as she walks away.