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you tell her you love her.
the world as you stand on it is on fire, and so is your leg, every smoldering inch of your skin, and you’ve tried so long to keep your heart from doing the same, but it’s all you have left to give. so, you tell her.
she smiles, and as you watch the ground splash up in burst fire behind her and buildings fold in crescendo to the west, you know: this will be the last time you see her.
no one could ever stop her before, and now would be a hell of a time for you to start trying. you will reach for her, but you’ll never pull her back. you love her, so you’ll stay behind when she tells you to, even if it tears you up inside. because you love her, you know she has to go.
with explosions ringing in your ears and every muscle aching, you’ll hobble to the med bay and let the doctor treat you. she’ll tell you that you’ll be fine—after all, you’ve been through far worse—but nothing she can give you will make you feel any better. your heart is still on the battlefield, running off without you, and this ship doesn’t carry any ready replacements.
yours is a one of a kind, anyway.
it’ll take some work but you’ll convince the doctor that you can be trusted with the open wound, unsewn and bleeding still from your chest. you’ll hobble your way up-deck to the cockpit where, for once, no one will be able to make a joke. quiet enough to even hear a pin drop.
you’ll watch, captive from the copilot’s seat, tense enough to culminate in your own exothermic reaction, all while the crucible fires without you there. with you, as far as possible, away from her.
and even though it hurts—your chest wide open and the hook caught in the gap yanking back towards earth—you’ll be the one to say “go.”
“joker, listen,” you’ll say, hollowed out to your bones. you’ll wish you didn’t have to be the one, but who else could be better? (you know, you know.) “we have to go.”
because you make a promise. because she tells you to live.
he’ll curl into himself, the way you’ll wish you could, curses whispering beneath his breath. but he’ll listen, because you’re not the only one who loves her.
the fiery explosion of the last shot. retirement, somewhere warm and tropical. you’ve always been good at imagining scenarios, but just like everything having to do with her, nothing comes close to reality. you’ve never thought about the future in terms of actually living in it. and especially not on your own.
soon after, (too soon, you think) there will be a funeral.
you’ll almost have to laugh, because you know she’d hate it—the speeches, and the crying. you will hate it. but they’ll look to you when she’s not there, and you’ll hold it together like you hold that nameplate tight in your hands. the raised bumps of her name will burn white hot on your fingertips, just like she always has because you aren’t meant to grasp a star.
but it’s just a name, just a title, you’ll tell yourself. it won’t be her.
you’ll hold on to it. keep it at your bedside like a talisman. something solid to ground you when your thoughts grow too loud and too disordered in your head. you’ll open the drawer on her side to stash it and come across the sidearm she always sleeps with.
you’ll look at the gun. imagine her again. you’ll close the drawer.
after months of searching with nothing to show for, you’ll go back to palaven. you will never stop looking, but you know sometimes the break in the case doesn’t come until after you take a step away. and although you know chances are low, from her you’ve learned a kind of hope you’re not ready to let go of. you’ve always expected the worst; maybe this time, you’ll get the pleasant surprise.
on palaven, you’ll rebuild your life. you don’t know how to hold a hammer, but for her, you think you could learn. and in every plank you add and every nail you tamp down, you’ll think of what she would say if she could see you painting the world without her.
lobbying, diplomacy—it’s never been your strong suit. you would rather let your work speak for you than your words. primacy is not a role you’ve ever desired, and despite her belief in you, despite the fact that you don’t believe you would be bad at it, you’ll do just about anything to get away from it. any mission they throw at you. any colony to assist with.
after all, it won’t be easy: the world without her. in-fighting and looting and more and more war that you’ll try to snuff out before it starts.
you’ll feel for the sidearm on your belt—the one you’ll have never fired, but you know exactly how the discharge sounds, have seen every part disassembled and polished twenty, thirty times over. you’ll brush your palm over the grip. you’ll open your omni-tool instead.
when you least expect to you’ll find an old vid you forgot about, and as you watch until your chest collapses in on itself, you know you’ll never forget the sound of her laughing.
one day, you’ll realize there are more things you forget. you’ll hate yourself for it. you’ll remember her face, but only because it’s everywhere: written in the constellations in the sky, painted on billboards, pasted into a montage of an imagined life happier than she ever had. but the feeling of her skin beneath yours; the smell of her—in the morning, or after a shower, or when she’s covered in the day’s grime and sweat—that all will fade.
but never her laugh. never the voice that’s just for you. the one that told you, “I always will.”
if you’re lucky, you’ll see that bar one day; and if you’re luckier, it’ll be far in the future, once your plates have cracked and your hide’s gone dry. and she’ll be waiting, just as she was when she left you there, flaming and smoldering.
so for now, as you burn under her gaze, with her hand tight on your face: you tell her you love her, but only because she lets you go.
you tell her you love her, because you never wanted to say goodbye.