unorthodox display of hubris but very well

> disables a new AI feature that was turned on by default

> opens my email

> disables a new AI feature that was turned on by default

> launches a software

mind you, i know that no matter grace's circumstances he would've been sent to space regardless, family or children be damned. he could have had a whole fleet of dogs and it wouldn't have been enough to save him. but something about that line. something about it.

It's like. Project Hail Mary is a big, popular movie. It has fucking Ryan Gosling in it. And there's not a hint of a romance plotline anywhere! It's all entirely focused on platonic relationships. The friendship between Grace and Rocky is the focus of the movie, and it's so important to the story. They both found someone to be brave for, someone they were willing to die for. Without their friendship and collaboration, neither of them would have been able to save their home planets. Their bond is so close and special and above all their best friends, and it's beautiful.

There's also Grace's relationship with Stratt. Stratt is the main female supporting character. In any other story -- any other story -- I can almost guarantee she would've been the love interest. But she isn't and it's fucking wonderful. Just. Just think about it for a moment. Project Hail Mary is this big blockbuster movie -- and it looked at Eva Stratt and said, we're not going to make her the love interest, because she wasn't in the book and she doesn't need to be. Their dynamic is just as fucked up and wonderful and traumatic when they're friends. That's such an amazing thing to see in such a mainstream movie.

And, of course, it means so much to me that Grace is aroace and that the film (and the book) continuously point this out. He leaves the party when he sees people getting together. He's only had one girlfriend. Half the time he's wearing the colors of the aroace flag. (In the book, he's incredibly confused when people think he and Stratt are sleeping together).

Stratt uses his lack of romantic relationships as a justification for sending him to die, which is heartbreaking, and it felt so real. Because society is constantly telling aroace people that we're worth less because we won't date or get married or have sex, because we don't fit into societal norms. What Stratt said to Grace -- that's something the world is constantly telling us.

And then the movie flips that on its head. It says that it doesn't matter that Grace never had any of that, because he loved living and he loved his students and he was so full of love for everything around him. And he met his best friend in space and their friendship was what made them able to save their homes and each other.

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.