₪ Erica Luna ₪

“Did I wake you?” she asks. Her accent tonight is softer than usual, less formal, a little tired around the edges. You know that voice. You’ve learned it like a second language.

You yawn into your pillow, nestling deeper into the sheets. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. You okay?”

A pause. Just long enough to mean something. “I’m fine,” she says quickly. And then, after a breath, quieter: “Just… tired. Long day.”

You can hear it in the way her words sink. It’s not just physical exhaustion, no, this is the kind of tired that lingers in your bones. The kind you carry in silence until someone’s gentle voice gives you permission to exhale.

“You wanna talk about it?”

There’s wind in the background, soft, almost like a whisper. She might be flying, or standing somewhere high and open to the sky. You can picture her silhouetted against starlight, boots on some alien balcony, the universe spread out beneath her.

“Not really,” she says. “I just wanted to hear you.”

Something about that makes your chest pull tight. You blink up at the ceiling, heart too full for a moment.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I’m here.”

She exhales, slow and steady. “Tell me something. Anything.”

You think. Not about anything profound, just something to fill the space. Something to remind her that the world she left behind still moves, even if it’s smaller than hers.

“Well,” you murmur, “I spilled coffee on my white shirt this morning. On the train. First five minutes of the day and bam—brown badge of shame right across the chest.”

You hear her laugh, soft and real and achingly fond. “You didn’t bring a spare?”

“Who does that?”

“Prepared people,” she teases. “Or people who know they’re likely to fumble liquids at high speeds.”

You chuckle, letting her voice wrap around you like a blanket. “Okay, okay. I’ll bring one tomorrow. Just for you.”

There’s a moment of silence, the kind that isn’t empty but full. You imagine her smiling, just a little, somewhere far away.

“What about you?” you ask gently. “Where are you?”

“Outer rim of Sector 3C,” she says. “Minor colony. Some smugglers were shaking them down. No finesse, just noise and big weapons. It’s always sad how easily fear roots itself.”

You can see it so clearly, her, standing tall in the middle of chaos, radiant and unflinching. People looking to her with wide eyes and trembling hands. And her meeting them with calm, with strength, with that unshakable core of light she carries.

“You stop them?”

“I did. They ran after I vaporized their ship’s engine.”

You raise your brows, half-impressed, half-exasperated. “Subtle.”

“I was aiming to disable it,” she says, mock-defensive. “It exploded more dramatically than I anticipated.”

You grin, warmth curling in your chest. “Kori…”

“What?” she says innocently. “It’s not my fault Earth ships are made so flimsily.”

“That wasn’t an Earth ship.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

You snort. “Okay, genius.”

“Careful,” she murmurs, playful now. “Keep insulting me and I’ll start charging for these calls.”

“Oh no,” you say dramatically. “Then how would I ever fall asleep again?”

There’s a pause. One that feels different.

“Do you actually sleep better after we talk?”

You shift under the covers, eyes fluttering closed. “Yeah. Kinda weird, right?”

“No,” she says. “I like it.”

You don’t answer right away. You just let that sit between you.

Then, her voice, quieter still. “I wish I could be there with you right now.”

“Me too.”

“I want to lie next to you. Just… be. No fighting. No traveling. No alarms. Just you. Me. The quiet.”

You swallow. She doesn’t often say things like that, not because she doesn’t feel them, but because it hurts too much to want what she can’t have. At least, not often. Not easily.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

You both fall quiet again.

You met her three years ago. You were working part-time at a satellite communications station, just a civilian gig, helping reroute long-distance calls through interplanetary relays. She came in asking for help with a downed transmission line. It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

But then she came back. And again. Sometimes with excuses, sometimes without. She was glowing—literally and figuratively—and terrifying and kind and curious about you. And you, who had no cape, no mission, no planet to defend, you were nobody. And yet she listened to you like you mattered. Like your words could anchor her.

The first time she called you late at night, you thought it was a mistake.

It never stopped feeling a little like a dream.

“Sometimes I think about what it’d be like to just… stop,” she says suddenly. “Not forever. Just for a while. To breathe. To wake up and not have to leave. Just… stay.”

Your heart aches. “You ever think about quitting?”

She hums, considering. “No. Not really. It’s in me. The fight. The purpose. But sometimes I wonder what I’m missing.”

“You’re not missing as much as you think,” you whisper.

“I think I am,” she says. “I think I’m missing you.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you interrupt. “Don’t apologize. I miss you too.”

Silence. Heavy and soft.

“Kori?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“I like this. Us. Even if it’s messy and long-distance and complicated.”

“I like it too,” she murmurs. “I think about you more than I admit. More than I should, maybe.”

You smile into the dark. “Well. That’s mutual.”

Another pause.

Then, tentative: “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“If I visited next week… just for a day… would you be around?”

You blink. Sit up a little. “You’re coming back?”

“Maybe. I can’t promise. But if I can… would you want to see me?”

You let out a soft, shaky breath. “Kori, if you showed up at my door at 3 a.m., I’d still let you in.”

She laughs gently. “Even if I’m sweaty from battle?”

“Even then.”

“What if I’m injured?”

“I’ll patch you up.”

“What if I bring a space lizard?”

“…I’ll let it sleep in the tub.”

You both laugh. That kind of laugh that feels like a held breath finally released.

“Alright,” she says. “Then maybe I’ll see you soon.”

You lie back down, pulling the blanket up to your chin. The phone is warm against your cheek.

“I hope so.”

“I’ll let you sleep now.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she says. “But I want you rested. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

You pause. “Goodnight, Kori.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers. “Dream something small. Something quiet. Save the stars for when we’re together.”

The line clicks. Silence returns.