Late Hours
Posted on Sun Sep 7th, 2025 @ 8:18am by Lieutenant Vesper Wolfe & Ensign Erin Andala
684 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission: Respite
The lounge was almost empty. Just the faint hum of the ship and the low lights casting long shadows across the tables. Erin sat curled up on one of the small couches in the corner, an untouched mug of tea cooling in her hands. She hadn’t meant to come here, but her quarters had felt suffocating and the science labs weren’t any better. Everywhere she went, Noa’s absence followed like a ghost. Her chest tightened as she stared at the stars beyond the view port. She used to sit with Noa during late study nights at the Academy, joking that the stars were always listening. Now, they were just cold.
Vesper had finished her shift hours ago, but sleep was a luxury she rarely indulged in after difficult missions. She wandered into the lounge more out of habit than hunger, expecting it to be empty. Instead, she noticed a familiar figure in the corner. Ensign Andala, hunched, fragile, and looking like she carried the galaxy on her shoulders. Vesper hesitated. She wasn’t the comforting type, but something about the way Erin clutched her mug like it was a lifeline made her cross the room. She approached quietly. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Erin startled, blinking up at the lieutenant who had spoke. For a moment, she almost said she was fine, but the lie stuck in her throat. She shook her head instead. “No. It feels like I don’t know how anymore.” Her eyes dropped back to the mug. “Noa used to...” she cut herself off, lips pressing tight.
Vesper slid into the seat across from her without asking, leaning back, arms crossed loosely. “You don’t have to finish that. I think I get it.” She let the silence linger before speaking again, softer this time. “I had someone once, back when I was on the Concordia. Her name was Reagan.” The name still caught in her chest, though the years had dulled the edge. “We weren’t official, but she was mine. Until she wasn’t. One mission, one bad call, and she was gone.” Her gaze shifted to the stars outside. “I thought I’d never breathe right again.”
Erin’s throat tightened. The idea of someone else knowing that hollow ache both comforted and terrified her. “Did it ever get easier?” she whispered, the words were desperate, almost pleading.
Vesper tilted her head, thinking. “Not easier. Different. The pain never leaves completely, but it changes shape. It stops being a knife in your chest and starts being something you carry. Some days it's heavier, some days it's lighter.” She leaned forward then, her voice steady. “But I learned one thing. Carrying it alone makes it unbearable. You need people who’ll sit with you when it feels too heavy.”
Erin’s eyes burned, though she tried to blink back the tears. “Noa was that person for me. She always knew what to say. She always made it feel lighter.” Her hand tightened around the mug until her knuckles whitened. “And now she’s gone, and I don’t know if I can do this without her.”
Vesper reached across the table, resting her hand lightly on Erin’s. “Then maybe you let someone else help carry it for a while. I can’t replace Noa, and I wouldn’t try. But I can sit here. I can listen. And I can remind you that you’re not as alone as you feel.” Her tone had no softness, no false comfort, just the blunt sincerity Vesper was known for.
The tears finally spilled, silent streaks down her face. For the first time since the away mission, Erin didn’t feel like she had to hold them back. She nodded shakily, clinging to Vesper’s hand like an anchor. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words were small, but they carried the weight of everything she couldn’t yet say.
Vesper gave her hand a firm squeeze, her grip saying everything that she couldn't vocalize. They sat in silence, watching the stars outside as the Eclipse warped along quietly.
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