#beyond earth

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I honestly don’t even know where to start with this one.

Beyond Earth lived inside my head for months before I finally had the courage to write it. I worked on this story slowly in between updates of my main fics. I spent a lot of time researching while writing this. I watched interviews from astronauts talking about isolation, reentry, space psychology, survival training, and what Earth looks like from orbit. I also read articles and watched documentaries about NASA missions, EVA training, parabolic flights, orbital mechanics, communication delays, and survival protocols. Some parts were heavily inspired by real science, while others were fictionalized or simplified for storytelling purposes.

This is still fanfiction at the end of the day, not a scientific documentary, so if some things are not 100% realistic, please forgive me. I tried my best to balance emotional storytelling with believable space survival elements.

Main inspirations for this story:

• Gravity (2013)

• Interstellar (2014)

• Ad Astra (2019)

• The Martian by Andy Weir

• Apollo 13 documentaries

• NASA astronaut interviews and ISS mission videos

• Real EVA and underwater astronaut training footage

• Space psychology studies and isolation experiments

And of course, Park Jimin himself inspired so much of the heart of this story. I kept imagining someone warm enough to make even the cold emptiness of space feel survivable.

This story is already completed with around 52k words on my Ko-fi, but because Tumblr has word limits, I’ll be splitting the chapters into multiple parts here while posting. So if some chapters end abruptly, that’s the reason.

I think this might be one of the most difficult stories I’ve ever written, but also one of the stories closest to my heart.

I hope Beyond Earth stayed with you for a little while after the final page.

See you beyond the stars.

Listen while reading ❤️

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The first thing you notice is how carefully they rebuilt your father into someone easy to mourn.

Not a man but a legacy.

The memorial hall is enormous, cold in the overly air conditioned way expensive buildings always are, filled with politicians, reporters, astronauts, engineers, sponsors, military officials, old friends pretending they knew him best. Black suits. Polished shoes. Camera flashes. Soft classical music playing through hidden speakers.

Everything feels rehearsed.

Even grief.

At the front of the hall, a massive screen stretches from floor to ceiling, playing footage from one of your father’s most famous launches. The quality has been digitally restored for the ceremony. Every detail is painfully sharp. The silver reflection of the shuttle. The glow of floodlights against the dark sky. Your father walking toward the launch tower with his helmet beneath one arm while reporters shouted questions from behind barricades.

Commander Han Yejun.

The astronaut who spent more than four hundred days in orbit.

The man students wrote essays about.

The man the world called fearless.

The man strangers loved enough to cry over.

The man who forgot your seventeenth birthday because he was giving interviews from another continent after returning from a mission.

Applause erupts around the hall as the video shows him waving at the cameras before entering the shuttle.

You don’t clap.

You just sit there in the front row beside your mother, staring at the screen until your eyes begin to burn.

Everyone else sees history.

You only remember disappointment.

You remember being eight years old, standing in a school auditorium wearing a paper moon costume for a science presentation because your teacher told the class your father might come watch. You spent the entire afternoon searching every opening door with stupid hope blooming inside your chest each time footsteps echoed through the hallway.

He never came.

Later that night he called from another training facility halfway across the world and told you he was proud of you.

You remember hanging up before he finished talking.

The screen changes again.

Now it shows footage from inside the spacecraft. Your father floating weightlessly, smiling into the camera while Earth glowed behind him in impossible shades of blue and white. The audience watches in complete silence, captivated by the beauty of it.

You remember that exact documentary.

You were thirteen when it aired globally.

The entire world admired how devoted he was to exploration.

That same night, you walked downstairs for water and found your mother asleep at the kitchen table with unpaid bills scattered beside her and mascara dried beneath her eyes.

You stood there for a long time listening to the television replay your father’s interview from orbit while your mother quietly cried in her sleep.

People always talk about the sacrifice astronauts make.

Nobody talks about the families they leave behind on Earth.

A speaker walks onto the stage and clears his throat.

“He dedicated his life to humanity’s future.”

More applause.

Another speaker calls your father inspirational.

Another calls him courageous.

Another says his name belongs beside the greatest explorers in modern history.

Nobody says he missed your high school graduation because a launch schedule changed.

Nobody says your mother stopped asking him to stay years ago because hearing “I’ll try” hurt worse than silence.

Nobody says the last real argument you had with him ended with you screaming that space mattered more to him than his own family.

The guilt of those words still lives somewhere deep inside you, ugly and permanent.

Three months after returning from orbit, your father collapsed during an interview rehearsal.

Massive heart attack.

The doctors blamed prolonged stress on the cardiovascular system after extended exposure to microgravity.

The headlines called it tragic.

Heroic.

A man who gave everything to science.

You remembered standing in the hospital hallway staring at the vending machines because crying felt impossible at the time.

Even now, seated among hundreds of grieving strangers, you still don’t know if what you feel counts as grief.

The giant screen fades to black.

For a brief second, the hall becomes silent enough that you can hear camera shutters clicking in the back rows.

Then another video appears.

A polished promotional broadcast.

A woman in a sharp navy blazer smiles toward the camera.

“In honor of Commander Han Yejun’s lifelong contributions to space exploration, the International Aerospace Coalition officially announces recruitment for its Joint Lunar Program beginning this fall.”

The room immediately stirs with excitement.

People whisper.

Reporters begin typing.

The screen displays footage of astronauts training underwater, spacecraft prototypes, simulations of a future lunar station.

Your stomach turns.

You don’t know why anger suddenly floods your body so fast, but it does.

Maybe because they wasted no time turning his death into inspiration.

Maybe because even here, at his own funeral, space still comes first.

Not his wife.

Not his daughter.

Not the years he lost.

Not the family sitting in the front row trying to survive the aftermath of loving him.

Just the mission.

Always the mission.

Your mother reaches for your hand quietly, but you pull away before realizing it.

The guilt comes instantly after.

You stare at the screen while the announcer continues speaking about “the next generation of pioneers.”

And suddenly you remember every empty chair.

Every missed birthday.

Every delayed promise.

Every school event where other fathers showed up carrying flowers and cameras while your mother smiled too brightly beside you to make up for his absence.

You remember your graduation most clearly.

Rain poured the entire evening. Students ran around taking photos with their families while you searched through crowds anyway, even though you already knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

He called an hour later from an airport terminal.

“I watched the livestream,” he told you softly.

As if that counted.

As if screens had ever been enough.

You spent your entire childhood competing against something invisible.

Not another woman.

Not another family.

Space itself.

And space always won.

By the time the memorial finally ends, your head is pounding.

People stop you every few minutes near the exit.

“Your father changed the world.”

“You must be so proud.”

“He talked about you all the time.”

You nod politely until your face starts hurting from pretending.

Outside, rain drizzles softly over the city. Reporters crowd near the entrance waiting for statements. Camera lights flash against black umbrellas.

Your mother leaves with relatives.

You tell her you’ll take a taxi home later.

She looks exhausted enough not to question it.

So you wander the streets alone for almost an hour with your heels in your hand and rain soaking through your black clothes.

You end up at a convenience store just before midnight.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead while old pop songs play quietly through speakers. Nobody recognizes you here. Nobody mentions your father. Nobody looks at you with pity.

You buy instant noodles and a canned coffee you don’t even want.

Then your phone buzzes.

A news notification appears across the screen.

Applications for the Joint Lunar Program officially open tonight.

You stare at it for a very long time.

Your first reaction is laughter.

Actual laughter.

Sharp and bitter and exhausted.

Of course they would open applications on the same day they buried him.

You should ignore it.

You should go home.

Sleep.

Move on with your life.

Instead, you sit alone beside the convenience store window while rain slides down the glass and something ugly begins unraveling inside you.

Because the truth is, your father spent his whole life chasing the stars while people worshipped him for it.

And no matter how hard you tried pretending otherwise, part of you always wondered what was so important up there that it mattered more than staying.

More than you.

Your fingers hover above the application link.

You think about your father teaching you calculus at the kitchen table during the few months he was actually home.

You think about him sneaking you astronomy books when your mother wasn’t looking.

You think about how furious you used to get whenever he looked happier discussing spacecraft than talking about ordinary life.

You think about the resentment you carried for years.

Then another thought slips in quietly beneath all the anger.

Maybe if you went up there yourself, you’d finally understand him.

Or maybe you’d prove he was never special at all.

Maybe space wasn’t worth what it took from people.

Maybe you could do everything he did and still come home better than him in the end.

The idea settles heavily inside you.

Not passion.

Not wonder.

Certainly not love for space.

Something far more dangerous.

You open the application.

And sometime around two in the morning, with rain still falling outside and your untouched noodles growing cold beside you, you submit it out of pure anger.

Because for the first time in your life, you want to beat your father at the one thing he loved more than his own family.

The apartment is dark when you get home.

Not quiet. Quiet would have felt comforting.

This feels hollow.

The kind of silence that settles inside places where people have spent too many years waiting for someone who rarely comes back.

You close the front door carefully so you do not wake your mother, though part of you already knows she is awake. Sleep stopped coming easily for her years ago. She mostly just lies in bed staring at the ceiling until exhaustion wins.

The hallway smells faintly like peppermint oil and old books. Your mother always rubs peppermint oil on her wrists whenever she has migraines, and lately the scent has become permanent inside the apartment.

You slip your heels off near the entrance and walk farther inside.

Everything looks exactly the same.

The framed magazines featuring your father still sit on the shelves untouched. Awards still line the living room cabinet. Mission patches. Photographs from launches. Signed memorabilia from astronauts who used to visit for dinner when you were younger.

The world always found your father inspiring.

You mostly remember him through voicemail messages.

Your eyes drift toward the wall beside the dining table.

Your graduation photo hangs there in a silver frame.

You almost look away immediately.

The picture was taken two years ago after your university commencement ceremony. You are wearing your honors sash and holding flowers while smiling beside your mother underneath pouring rain.

Only your mother.

You remember other graduates rushing around campus introducing relatives to professors while your mother fixed your hair with trembling hands because she knew exactly why you kept scanning the crowd.

Your father had promised he would make it.

Again.

Your phone buzzed thirty minutes after the ceremony ended.

Delayed launch preparations.

Emergency schedule changes.

You deleted the voicemail without listening to the end.

The memory still leaves something sour sitting inside your stomach.

You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water before leaning against the counter, staring blankly at the city lights outside the apartment window.

You still cannot believe you actually submitted the application.

The Joint Lunar Program.

Even thinking the words feels ridiculous.

Astronaut candidate selection was brutally competitive. Thousands applied every cycle. Most of them were military pilots, decorated scientists, engineers with impossible résumés, people who had dreamed about space since childhood.

People like your father.

Not angry daughters trying to outrun resentment.

You tell yourself nothing will come from it anyway.

You only applied because grief makes people impulsive.

Because anger needed somewhere to go.

Because maybe part of you wanted to understand what could possibly be worth sacrificing an entire family for.

That thought follows you into your bedroom.

The walls are still lined with old textbooks from university. Aerodynamics. Orbital mechanics. Systems engineering. Advanced propulsion structures. You spent years buried beneath impossible coursework while surviving on caffeine and stubbornness alone.

Your mother used to joke that you inherited your father’s brain and her inability to sleep.

You graduated top of your department with a degree in aerospace engineering and flight systems design. During your final year, you worked on experimental emergency stabilization software for low orbit aircraft, which unexpectedly earned attention from private aerospace companies.

You hated every second of the publicity.

Reporters kept mentioning your father during interviews.

“Following in his footsteps?”

You nearly walked out each time.

After graduation, you joined an advanced aerospace research program specializing in flight control systems and spacecraft structural failures. Most of your work involved simulations, emergency protocols, navigation systems, and mechanical troubleshooting for long duration orbital missions.

You became good at fixing problems before they killed people.

Maybe because deep down, you were still trying to fix something much older.

You place your bag down beside the bed and finally notice the blinking notification light on your laptop.

Probably spam.

You open it anyway.

Then freeze.

SUBJECT: JOINT LUNAR PROGRAM APPLICATION STATUS

Your heartbeat begins climbing before you even click it open.

You expect rejection immediately.

Instead, the email congratulates you for advancing into preliminary candidate evaluations.

Attached below are physical assessment schedules, psychological examinations, flight aptitude testing requirements, and relocation details for the astronaut training facility in Houston.

You stare at the screen for so long your vision starts blurring.

This has to be a mistake.

You reread the email three times.

Then fourth.

Still real.

Your first instinct is panic.

Your second is anger.

Because suddenly this is no longer some dramatic decision made in the middle of grief and rain outside a convenience store.

Now it exists.

Now it can actually happen.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts.

Your mother slowly opens the bedroom door.

Her face looks smaller lately. Grief has a way of shrinking people little by little.

“You’re home late,” she says quietly.

You nod once.

Neither of you mention the funeral.

Neither of you mention him.

That has become normal.

Her eyes drift toward your laptop screen accidentally.

You move too slowly before she notices the program logo.

Silence fills the room.

Your mother looks at you for a very long time.

And somehow that hurts more than yelling would have.

“You applied,” she says softly.

You look away first.

“I probably won’t even pass evaluations.”

She steps farther into the room carefully, like she is afraid one wrong movement might shatter something fragile between you.

“You used to hate when he left.”

The words land harder because they are true.

You swallow.

“I still do.”

“Then why?”

You wish you had a better answer.

Something noble.

Something inspirational.

Instead, the truth comes out ugly.

“Because I’m tired of wondering what mattered so much more than us.”

Your mother’s eyes immediately fill with tears she tries not to show.

For a second you regret saying it.

Then she quietly walks toward your desk and picks up one of your old engineering notebooks.

She flips through pages filled with equations and system sketches.

“You know,” she says carefully, “your father kept every article written about your research.”

You blink.

“What?”

“He bragged about you constantly when he was away.” A small sad laugh escapes her. “The other astronauts probably knew your GPA better than their own mission data.”

The room suddenly feels too small.

Your mother closes the notebook gently.

“He loved space,” she whispers. “But he loved you too. He was just terrible at knowing how to hold both at the same time.”

You do not answer.

Because part of you believes her.

And another part is still angry enough not to forgive him.

Three months later, you arrive in Houston with two suitcases and absolutely no emotional preparation for what astronaut training actually looks like.

The facility is enormous.

Glass buildings. Simulation centers. Underwater training tanks deeper than some lakes. Engineers and pilots rushing through hallways carrying tablets and coffee cups while screens display orbital maps and launch schedules in real time.

Everything feels intimidatingly alive.

The first week nearly destroys you.

Physical endurance tests begin before sunrise. Rotational chair exercises leave half the candidates vomiting. Survival training pushes people until they collapse from exhaustion. Every instructor speaks with brutal efficiency because one mistake in space means death.

Nobody cares who your father was here.

Which is exactly how you want it.

Then Park Jimin ruins your peace almost instantly.

You first see him during orientation.

Or rather, you hear him first.

Laughter.

Warm, effortless laughter spreading across the room while exhausted candidates instinctively drift toward him like gravity itself shifted directions.

He sits casually on top of a table near the back of the training room wearing a dark academy jumpsuit half zipped at the collar. Soft blond hair falling into his eyes. Bright smile. Easy confidence.

The type of person strangers trust immediately.

You dislike him on sight.

Which becomes deeply inconvenient because apparently everyone else is obsessed with him.

Instructors know his name already.

Candidates gather around him during breaks.

Even the cafeteria staff seem charmed by him somehow.

Within two days, you learn several things about Park Jimin.

Former Air Force pilot.

Top percentile in flight adaptability testing.

Specialized in orbital maneuver operations.

Infuriatingly good at almost everything.

Also incapable of shutting up.

“You’re the engineer, right?” he asks during simulation prep while leaning against your station. “The one who built emergency stabilization software?”

You keep your eyes on your monitor.

“You’re blocking my screen.”

Instead of getting offended, he grins wider.

“Oh, you’re scary.”

You ignore him completely.

Unfortunately, Park Jimin seems to enjoy being ignored.

Over the next several weeks, he keeps appearing everywhere.

During centrifuge training where he somehow still jokes while everyone else looks seconds away from death.

During underwater simulations where instructors constantly praise his composure.

During navigation drills where he finishes problems absurdly fast before casually spinning pens between his fingers like this is all fun to him.

Meanwhile you work yourself into exhaustion trying to stay ahead.

And somehow he still keeps beating your scores.

Barely.

Always barely.

Which honestly feels worse.

Then comes the orbital emergency simulation that changes everything.

Candidates are placed individually inside full mission simulators designed to replicate catastrophic system failures during lunar descent.

Pressure leaks.

Communication blackouts.

Navigation collapse.

Everything happening at once.

You spend six brutal hours inside the simulator solving emergency sequences while instructors monitor every decision from behind observation glass.

When you finally emerge, exhausted and sweating through your uniform, one instructor looks genuinely impressed.

“Best stabilization recovery we’ve seen this cycle.”

Relief floods through you so suddenly you almost smile.

Almost.

Then another instructor glances down at his tablet.

“Well. Second best.”

Your mood instantly darkens.

You turn toward the digital ranking board.

At the very top:

PARK JIMIN

98.7%

Directly underneath:

Y/N

98.4%

You stare at the numbers in disbelief.

Point three.

Three miserable decimals.

“That’s impossible,” you mutter.

“Not impossible,” a familiar voice says behind you. “Just tragic.”

You turn sharply.

Jimin stands there holding two water bottles, annoyingly relaxed despite the six hour simulation everyone else barely survived.

He tosses one toward you.

You almost let it hit the floor out of spite.

“You almost had me, Commander,” he says with a teasing smile.

Commander.

The nickname drips with sarcasm.

Your eyes narrow immediately.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“A little,” he admits easily.

You should hate how attractive he looks while smiling.

You especially hate the fact that he knows it.

The other candidates laugh nearby while Jimin walks beside you toward the locker rooms.

“You know,” he continues casually, “most people congratulate someone after they survive a catastrophic lunar crash simulation.”

“I would’ve survived better if your score didn’t exist.”

He laughs again.

Bright. Genuine. Completely irritating.

“You’re competitive.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“Ouch.”

“You think this is some game.”

That finally makes him quieter.

For the first time since meeting him, his expression softens slightly.

“No,” he says carefully. “I just think if we’re going to spend our lives preparing for terrifying things, we should still find reasons to laugh sometimes.”

The honesty catches you off guard.

And for one annoying second, you almost understand why everyone loves him so much.

Which honestly might be the most dangerous thing about Park Jimin.

By the fourth month of astronaut training, you learn that exhaustion can become a personality.

People stop introducing themselves properly because everyone is too tired to pretend they are functioning normally anymore. Candidates fall asleep in cafeterias with protein bars still in their hands. Someone throws up during centrifuge testing almost every week. Half the program walks around covered in bruises from impact drills and underwater simulations.

And somehow, Park Jimin still smiles through all of it like his body never learned the meaning of burnout.

You hate him a little for that.

Actually, no.

You hate the fact that part of you has started looking for him automatically in every room.

The realization irritates you enough to avoid him for nearly three days.

Unfortunately, avoiding Park Jimin is almost impossible.

Especially because the instructors keep pairing you together.

“Your problem,” Commander Alvarez tells both of you during briefing one morning, “is that you’re individually excellent and collectively unbearable.”

The room bursts into laughter.

Jimin looks delighted.

You look away before he notices you fighting a smile.

Today’s training takes place inside the Neutral Buoyancy Facility, a massive underwater simulation tank used to replicate zero gravity conditions for EVA operations. The pool is so enormous it feels endless, stretching beneath industrial lights and metal platforms high above the water.

Inside the tank sits a full scale mockup of part of the lunar orbital station.

Every astronaut candidate fears this training.

Underwater EVA exercises are physically brutal. The suits alone weigh hundreds of pounds outside the water. Movements are slow and suffocating. Visibility changes constantly. One wrong adjustment can disorient you completely.

The instructors call it controlled drowning.

You believe them.

Candidates move around the prep area checking suit seals and oxygen systems while technicians communicate through headsets. Everything smells like chlorine, metal, and machinery.

You sit on the edge of the platform while a technician secures your gloves.

“Vitals look good,” she says. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“A little nervous is healthy.”

“I said no.”

The technician raises her eyebrows slightly but says nothing else.

Across the platform, Jimin is already suited up.

Even buried beneath layers of equipment, he somehow still looks unfairly relaxed. His helmet rests beneath one arm while he talks to another candidate who looks seconds away from a panic attack.

You watch Jimin crouch beside him, speaking quietly until the candidate finally laughs.

Then Jimin notices you staring.

His mouth curves instantly.

You look away before he can wave.

Annoying.

Everything about him is annoying lately.

Especially because your body has started reacting to him in ways you absolutely refuse to examine too closely.

The way his voice settles into something softer whenever he talks directly to you.

The way he always reaches instinctively toward your elbow during difficult simulations.

The way he remembers tiny details without making a big deal about them.

Three nights ago, he left a cup of coffee outside your dorm room before a 5 a.m. endurance evaluation because he overheard you complaining about the cafeteria coffee tasting like melted batteries.

He did not mention it afterward.

You did not thank him.

That should have made things simpler.

Instead, it somehow made them worse.

“Ready, Commander?”

You glance up.

Jimin stands beside you now holding his helmet beneath one arm. There is amusement in his eyes already, like he knows exactly how much the nickname irritates you.

“You know if you keep calling me that sarcastically, I might start believing you’re obsessed with me.”

His grin widens immediately.

“There she is.”

You roll your eyes and stand.

The instructors begin final briefing procedures before the dive.

Today’s objective involves external station repairs during simulated communication failure. Candidates must navigate structural panels underwater while managing oxygen consumption and equipment troubleshooting simultaneously.

Simple in theory.

Terrifying in execution.

You descend into the tank alongside Jimin twenty minutes later.

The second your body slips beneath the water, the world changes completely.

Sound disappears first.

Then gravity.

Everything becomes slow and strangely dreamlike beneath the massive blue depth of the facility. Lights shimmer overhead while the station mockup stretches around you like some abandoned structure floating endlessly through space.

Your breathing echoes loudly inside your helmet.

You move carefully along the station exterior, securing cables and checking system panels while instructors monitor from above through underwater communication systems.

Jimin works several feet away from you.

Even underwater, he moves gracefully.

Efficient. Calm. Confident.

You hate noticing that too.

“Commander,” his voice crackles through comms, “you missed a latch.”

You glance over sharply.

“I absolutely did not.”

He points toward the panel beside you.

You freeze.

The latch is, unfortunately, unsecured.

Silence fills the comm line for two seconds.

Then Jimin laughs.

Soft at first.

Then louder.

“You were saying?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still thinking about me.”

You mutter several things the communications team definitely should not hear.

The instructors sigh audibly through comms.

“Focus, both of you.”

Training continues.

You force yourself to concentrate on the repair sequence in front of you. Tools float tethered beside your suit while oxygen readings pulse steadily across your display.

Everything feels manageable again.

Until suddenly it doesn’t.

At first, it is subtle.

A strange resistance in your breathing.

You inhale once.

Then again.

The airflow feels thinner somehow.

Your brows furrow instinctively.

You check your oxygen gauge.

Numbers fluctuate strangely before stabilizing again.

Probably a sensor glitch.

You continue working.

Then your next breath catches halfway.

Your entire body immediately goes alert.

You inhale harder.

Nothing.

Not nothing exactly.

Just not enough.

Panic flashes hot through your bloodstream.

You tap the regulator twice.

Still restricted airflow.

Your breathing grows sharper inside the helmet.

“Control,” you say through comms, trying to keep your voice steady. “I think my regulator is malfunctioning.”

Static answers first.

Then broken audio.

“Repeat… signal weak…”

Of course.

Communication failure simulation.

For one terrible second, you forget this is training.

Your lungs begin working harder automatically, desperate for air that no longer arrives properly. The tank suddenly feels enormous around you. Endless. Suffocating.

You force yourself to stay calm.

Panic burns oxygen faster.

You know that.

You know every protocol.

Every emergency procedure.

But knowing something and surviving it are different things entirely.

You attempt manual override.

The regulator jams.

Your vision flickers slightly.

“Control,” you say again, breathing uneven now. “This isn’t part of the simulation.”

No response.

Water presses around you from every direction.

Your heartbeat becomes deafening inside the helmet.

You try moving toward the ascent line but dizziness hits halfway there. Your limbs feel strangely heavy. Thoughts begin slowing apart at the edges.

Then a hand grabs your wrist.

Jimin.

His eyes widen instantly behind his visor the moment he sees your oxygen display.

Everything about him changes at once.

No teasing.

No laughter.

Only terrifying focus.

He signals emergency ascent immediately while pulling you closer. You shake your head stubbornly and try reaching for the backup valve yourself.

He catches your hand before you can fumble the controls further.

You hate the fear visible in his expression.

Hate it because suddenly you realize he is genuinely scared for you.

Your breathing turns ragged.

Black spots creep into your vision.

Jimin switches to emergency oxygen transfer with quick practiced movements, connecting auxiliary airflow directly into your suit system.

Fresh oxygen floods your lungs.

The relief hurts.

Your body nearly collapses from it.

Jimin keeps one hand locked tightly around your harness while guiding both of you upward through the water. Instructors and safety divers descend rapidly toward you now, their voices distorted through the chaos flooding comm channels.

The ascent feels endless.

By the time they drag both of you onto the platform, your hands are shaking violently from adrenaline and oxygen deprivation.

Technicians crowd around immediately.

“Get her helmet off.”

“Vitals?”

“Easy, breathe slowly.”

Someone removes your gloves while another checks your pulse.

The entire room feels too bright.

Too loud.

Your lungs ache with every inhale.

Across the platform, Jimin rips his own helmet off hard enough that water sprays everywhere.

His hair is soaked, curls sticking messily across his forehead while panic still lingers openly across his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately.

You nod automatically even though you are not.

The medical staff continue checking your vitals while instructors investigate the damaged regulator system nearby.

Apparently a valve failure caused oxygen restriction during pressure transition.

Rare.

Dangerous.

Almost catastrophic if unnoticed any later.

Everyone keeps talking around you.

You barely hear any of it.

Because suddenly embarrassment crashes over you harder than fear did.

You almost blacked out.

You lost control.

And worst of all, Jimin saw it happen.

You stand too quickly.

A medic reaches toward you.

“Careful, your oxygen levels are still recovering.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should sit down another few minutes.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

The medic backs away slightly.

Jimin watches you quietly from several feet away.

Still soaked.

Still breathing harder than normal.

Still looking at you like the thought of losing you terrified him.

And for some reason, that makes anger rise inside you immediately.

Because you do not want people worrying about you.

You do not want to become someone fragile.

You especially do not want Park Jimin looking at you like that.

So instead of saying thank you like a normal person, you hear yourself snap:

“I didn’t need help.”

The entire platform falls strangely quiet.

One instructor actually closes his eyes briefly like he physically felt the stupidity of that statement.

Jimin stares at you for a long moment.

Water drips slowly from his hair onto the floor.

You expect him to joke.

Or argue.

Instead, his expression changes into something much quieter.

Something disappointed.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s your problem.”

The words hit harder than yelling would have.

Before you can respond, he turns and walks away toward the equipment corridor without looking back.

And for the rest of the day, the terrifying part is not almost drowning.

It is realizing how much you hated watching him leave angry.

After the water tank incident, something between you and Jimin changes.

The shift is subtle enough to make you question whether you imagined it in the first place.

He still smiles around everyone else. Still jokes during simulations. Still somehow becomes the center of every room without even trying. Candidates continue orbiting around him naturally during breaks while instructors praise his adaptability and composure during evaluations.

To everyone else, Park Jimin remains exactly the same.

Only you notice the difference.

He stops lingering beside your station during training.

Stops teasing you every five minutes.

Stops bringing you coffee before early evaluations.

The sarcastic “Commander” disappears completely.

At first, you tell yourself the silence is a relief.

Then three days pass.

And you realize you miss hearing his voice.

Which feels deeply humiliating.

The problem with Park Jimin is that he had somehow slipped into your routine without permission. You got used to hearing him laugh from across simulation rooms. Got used to catching him dancing in elevators when he thought nobody was looking. Got used to his constant commentary during training sessions.

Now the absence of it follows you everywhere.

You hate that too.

By the end of the week, Houston is drowning in rain.

Water streaks endlessly down the massive glass windows of the astronaut facility while thunder rumbles outside hard enough to shake the dormitory walls. Most candidates spend nights studying inside common lounges or passed out unconscious from exhaustion.

You should probably be asleep too.

Instead, you sit alone at your desk staring blankly at orbital navigation equations while rereading the same paragraph for nearly twenty minutes.

Your concentration has been terrible lately.

Every time your thoughts quiet down, they drift back toward the same person.

Annoying.

You shove your textbook away with a frustrated sigh and stand.

Maybe coffee will fix it.

The dormitory halls are mostly dark this late at night. Only emergency lights glow softly along the floors while rain lashes against distant windows. You walk toward the common kitchen half awake, rubbing exhaustion from your eyes.

Then you notice the observatory lights upstairs.

The facility observatory sits at the very top of the training complex, mostly used for navigation exercises and astronomical orientation classes. Candidates rarely visit it outside scheduled sessions because everyone is usually too exhausted.

Tonight, pale light spills quietly beneath the doorway.

You almost keep walking.

Then something stops you.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe boredom.

Maybe the strange restless feeling sitting inside your chest ever since the argument by the water tank.

You head upstairs.

The observatory is nearly silent when you step inside.

Massive curved windows overlook the storm covered city below while digital star maps glow faintly across suspended screens. Rain taps softly against the glass dome overhead.

At first, you think the room is empty.

Then you hear it.

A woman’s voice.

Gentle.

Warm.

Distorted slightly through old audio speakers.

“You have to eat properly before flying, Jimin-ah. Last time you skipped breakfast and nearly fainted.”

A soft laugh answers the recording.

You freeze immediately.

Jimin sits alone near the far side of the observatory floor, leaning back against the wall beneath dim blue starlight projections. His knees are drawn slightly upward, one arm resting loosely across them while an old voice recorder plays quietly beside him.

His head tilts down.

Eyes closed.

For the first time since meeting him, Park Jimin is not smiling.

Something about that realization unsettles you unexpectedly.

Because until now, his happiness had always seemed effortless. Natural. Like sunlight. Like breathing.

Seeing the absence of it feels strangely intimate.

You should probably leave before he notices you.

Instead, you stay frozen near the doorway while the recording continues.

“You know your father worries when you fly too recklessly.”

A younger version of Jimin laughs softly through the speaker.

“He worries when I breathe too recklessly.”

His mother laughs at that.

The sound fills the observatory briefly before fading into static.

Silence settles afterward.

Jimin opens his eyes slowly.

“You can come in. You are not exactly good at being invisible.”

There was no teasing in it this time. Only a quiet tiredness that made the words feel less like a joke and more like an invitation he almost did not want to offer.

You stepped inside slowly, careful not to interrupt whatever space he had built around himself. The observatory door clicked softly behind you, and the sound felt too loud in the silence that followed.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The city below blurred through sheets of rain, and the projected stars above kept drifting across the glass ceiling like they were unaware of anything happening on the ground.

Jimin finally reached over and paused the recording.

The woman’s voice disappeared mid sentence, leaving a strange emptiness behind it.

“My mother hated flying,” he said suddenly, like he had decided honesty was easier than avoidance.

You paused slightly, not expecting him to start there.

“She did not stop you from becoming a pilot?” you asked carefully.

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it was distant, almost nostalgic rather than amused.

“She tried,” he admitted. “More times than I can count. She was terrified of it, honestly. Every time my father had a flight scheduled, she would pretend she was fine, but she never slept properly until he came home.”

His fingers turned the recorder slowly in his hands, like grounding himself through motion.

You listened without interrupting.

“My father was a pilot too,” he continued after a moment. “Commercial and later rescue operations. He eventually moved into aerospace work, flight coordination, and later became involved in early orbital training programs. That was his world before I ever stepped into it.”

He exhaled quietly.

“They say I got into this because of him, and that is not wrong. I idolized him when I was growing up. I wanted to be exactly like him. Someone who could leave, do something important, and still come back like it was normal.”

His eyes drifted toward the dark glass of the observatory window.

“But my mother was the one who made everything feel like home.”

That sentence lingered longer than the others.

Jimin’s voice softened slightly as he continued.

“She was not part of aviation at all. She just lived in it because of us. She would be waiting at the door whenever my father came back from flights, always pretending she was not worried even when she clearly was. And when I started flying, she did the same thing with me.”

A small breath left him, almost like he was remembering something he did not usually say out loud.

“I became a pilot before all of this,” he added quietly. “Military flight training first, then rescue operations. I was already in active service when she died.”

That part landed differently.

“I was on rotation when it happened,” he continued, voice steady but lower now. “An aneurysm. It was sudden. No warning. I did not even get to say anything that mattered before I left that day.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time.

You did not realize you had gone still until he spoke again.

“After that, flying did not feel the same,” he said. “But I kept going. I think part of me thought if I stopped, it would mean I was leaving her too.”

His gaze lifted slightly toward the projected stars above.

“That is when I started applying for astronaut programs. Mission specialist track. My father was already involved in spaceflight development by then, working with international crews, training rotations, mission planning.”

He gave a small, almost absent smile.

You watched him carefully now, seeing something in him that did not match the version everyone else described.

Not effortless.

Not untouchable.

Just someone who had been carrying too many things quietly for too long.

Jimin leaned his head back lightly against the wall again, finally meeting your eyes for a moment.

“I did not come here because I was looking for something new,” he said more softly. “I came because I already knew what it felt like to lose people while still having to keep flying anyway.”

The words stayed in the air long after he stopped speaking.

And for the first time since you met him, you did not see Park Jimin as the smiling, effortless center of everyone’s attention.

You saw the son of a pilot who never really stopped flying.

A boy who learned too early what it meant to love people who were always halfway gone.

And somehow, that made him feel closer than ever before.

He notices your expression eventually and huffs softly.

“Wow. You look emotionally devastated right now.”

You roll your eyes automatically.

“There’s the annoying part again.”

“Comforting, isn’t it?”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Jimin immediately looks toward you.

Like hearing you laugh feels rarer than it should.

The realization makes warmth creep embarrassingly into your face.

You clear your throat quickly.

“You never talk about yourself.”

“You never ask.”

“You never answer properly.”

“That’s because you interrogate people like a government agent.”

You almost smile again.

The storm outside begins calming slowly while silence settles more comfortably between both of you this time.

Eventually your eyes drift toward the framed aviation photographs stacked near his bag.

Pilot certification ceremonies.

Military flight awards.

Mission commendations.

One image shows Jimin beside a fighter jet looking impossibly young.

“You were an Air Force pilot before this,” you say quietly.

He nods.

“Rescue operations mostly. Then orbital flight specialization later.”

Jimin goes quiet for several seconds.

“I spent years chasing this feeling during flights.” He searches for the words carefully. “That moment when you’re high enough above the clouds that the world suddenly looks small and quiet and temporary.” A faint smile touches his face again. “Space felt like the next answer.”

You stare at him.

At the exhaustion beneath his eyes.

At the loneliness he hides beneath charm so naturally most people probably never notice it exists.

And suddenly the version of Park Jimin you built inside your head begins cracking apart.

Maybe he isn’t effortlessly happy.

Maybe he just learned early how to become the kind of person people never worry about.

The thought hurts more than expected.

Jimin notices you staring too long.

“What?”

You look away immediately.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

You ignore that.

But as rain continues sliding softly down the observatory glass, you realize something quietly terrifying.

Park Jimin is lonelier than you thought.

And somehow, against your better judgment, you think you might understand that loneliness better than anyone else here.

Friendship with Park Jimin happens so slowly you do not realize it is happening until it already feels permanent.

No sudden moment where both of you decide to stop fighting each other.

Instead, it begins with small things.

Annoyingly small things.

Like the fact that he starts saving you seats during lectures without asking.

You arrive late to orbital systems briefing one morning after oversleeping through two alarms and immediately notice an empty chair beside him near the center row. Your first instinct is suspicion.

Your second is irritation because several other candidates are already standing awkwardly nearby hoping to sit there.

Jimin looks up from his tablet the second you enter.

“There you are,” he says casually. “I was about to sell your seat.”

You slide into the chair beside him carefully.

“I didn’t ask you to save it.”

“That’s what makes me generous.”

You try not to smile.

Mostly fail.

After that, it becomes routine.

Lunches together happen accidentally at first.

Then constantly.

The training facility cafeteria serves food that somehow manages to taste aggressively mediocre no matter what cuisine they attempt, but meals become easier to survive when Jimin is sitting across from you making dramatic complaints about powdered eggs.

“These eggs feel emotionally hostile,” he says one afternoon while poking at his tray.

“You say that every morning.”

“Because they keep hurting me every morning.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He grins immediately.

There it is again.

That stupid smile.

The one that somehow makes him look warm even under fluorescent cafeteria lighting after twelve hours of training exhaustion.

You start noticing things about Park Jimin without meaning to.

Tiny details.

The way he unconsciously bites the inside of his cheek while concentrating during simulations.

The way his voice becomes softer whenever someone is nervous during evaluations.

The way he always stretches his shoulders after long training sessions because an old flight injury still bothers him sometimes.

The way he listens completely when people talk to him, like he genuinely believes every person deserves his full attention.

It would be easier if he were just charming.

But he is kind too.

Which feels significantly more unfair.

One evening during advanced navigation training, a younger candidate completely breaks down after failing a docking simulation three times in a row. The instructors move on quickly because astronaut training does not pause for anyone’s emotions.

You watch the candidate leave the room trying very hard not to cry.

Twenty minutes later, you pass the hallway outside and find Jimin sitting cross legged on the floor beside him sharing vending machine snacks while quietly explaining orbital calculations step by step.

You stand there longer than necessary watching them laugh about something before walking away unnoticed.

That night, you hate how warm your chest feels afterward.

You become study partners without officially discussing it.

Mostly because Jimin keeps appearing wherever you are already studying.

Library corners.

Simulation prep rooms.

Empty observatories at two in the morning.

At first, he distracts you constantly.

“You highlight textbooks like someone preparing for war.”

“You annotate your notes with smiley faces.”

“They improve morale.”

“They’re horrifying.”

He gasps dramatically every single time you insult him.

Then somehow three hours pass and both of you are still sitting there arguing over orbital descent equations while sharing cold coffee and exhaustion.

The strangest part is how easy silence becomes with him.

You are not used to easy silence.

Most people eventually grow uncomfortable around you because you are quieter than they expect. More guarded. Less willing to soften yourself for other people’s comfort.

Jimin never pushes too hard.

He teases.

Pokes.

Tries slipping through cracks in your walls constantly.

But whenever he notices you retreat emotionally, he eases back instinctively like he understands pressure only makes you run farther.

That realization unsettles you most.

Because he is learning you carefully.

And worse, you are learning him too.

Midnight conversations become your favorite part of the day before you even notice they matter.

Training schedules destroy normal sleep patterns for everyone, so candidates wander the facility at strange hours fueled entirely by caffeine and stress. More often than not, you find Jimin somewhere during those sleepless nights.

Sometimes in the observatory.

Sometimes sitting on rooftops outside dormitories with headphones around his neck.

Sometimes alone inside empty simulator rooms staring at stars projected across digital ceilings.

And somehow you always end up sitting beside him.

One night, both of you lie flat on the observatory floor while artificial constellations move slowly overhead.

The room is dark except for starlight projections glowing faint blue against your skin.

Jimin breaks the silence first.

“What did you want to become before aerospace engineering destroyed your social life?”

You snort softly.

“My social life was already dead.”

“Understandable.”

You think about the question seriously.

Then answer quietly.

“A pianist.”

Jimin turns his head toward you immediately.

“What?”

“My mother taught piano lessons when I was younger.” A faint embarrassed laugh escapes you. “I used to love it.”

“You still play?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

The answer takes longer.

Because it sounds stupid out loud.

“After my father became famous, every hobby started feeling pointless.” You stare up at the projected stars overhead. “Everyone expected me to become impressive too.”

Jimin stays quiet.

You continue before stopping yourself.

“I was good at math and physics. Aerospace engineering made sense.”

“But you didn’t love it.”

You hesitate.

Then shrug lightly.

“I liked understanding how things worked.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

His voice is gentle when he says it.

You glance toward him finally.

Jimin is already looking at you.

The dim artificial starlight softens his features strangely tonight. His blond hair falls messily across his forehead while exhaustion leaves his eyes quieter than usual.

For a second, something shifts painfully inside your chest.

You look away too quickly.

“What about you?” you ask. “Did you always want this?”

A soft smile touches his mouth.

“Since I was twelve.”

“That young?”

“My father took me to an air show.” His eyes drift upward thoughtfully. “I watched pilots disappear into the clouds and decided normal life would probably never feel enough afterward.”

“You make that sound poetic.”

He laughs softly beside you.

The sound settles warmly into the dark.

Later that same week, you realize something deeply unfortunate.

You start searching for him automatically.

It happens during training breaks first.

Your eyes drift instinctively through crowded simulation rooms looking for blond hair and familiar laughter before your brain catches up.

Then it happens during meals.

Then lectures.

Then random moments throughout the day when something amusing happens and your first thought becomes:

I need to tell Jimin.

The realization horrifies you.

Especially because you know exactly when he is absent now.

The facility feels different without him in it.

One afternoon, Jimin misses training after medical evaluations for his shoulder injury. The entire day feels strangely off balance afterward.

You become irritated more easily.

Distracted.

By dinner time, another candidate finally notices.

“You okay?”

You blink.

“What?”

“You’ve checked the door like eight times.”

Heat floods your face immediately.

“I have not.”

The candidate only smirks knowingly.

You spend the next hour pretending not to think about Park Jimin at all.

It fails miserably.

Meanwhile, Jimin is slowly falling apart over you in ways he never admits aloud.

It begins with details.

Your eyes first.

Brown in a way that changes depending on light. Warmer during sunsets. Darker during training simulations when you concentrate too hard.

He notices how beautiful they become whenever you forget guarding yourself for a few seconds.

He notices your hands too.

How your fingers move automatically while solving equations in notebooks.

How carefully you hold coffee cups during exhausted mornings.

How you unconsciously tap rhythms against tables whenever deep in thought.

The more time he spends around you, the more contradictions he finds.

Everyone at the facility thinks you are intimidating.

And you are sometimes.

Sharp tongued. Competitive. Difficult when angry.

But Jimin notices softer things hidden underneath.

The way you secretly leave corrected notes on struggling candidates’ desks anonymously.

The way you always thank cafeteria workers quietly even when exhausted.

The way your entire expression changes around children during public outreach events.

One afternoon during emergency response drills, a little girl visiting the facility asks nervous questions about spacecraft safety while the other candidates politely brush her off.

You kneel beside her for nearly twenty minutes explaining every answer patiently with hand drawn diagrams.

Jimin watches the entire thing silently from across the room.

Something dangerous settles inside him afterward.

Because suddenly he cannot stop imagining what you would look like loving someone openly.

And God.

That thought ruins him a little.

The worst part is that you have no idea.

You still think he flirts naturally with everyone.

Still think his smiles come easily.

Still think he is impossible to read.

Meanwhile, Jimin lies awake some nights replaying tiny moments with embarrassing precision.

The sound of your laugh when genuinely surprised.

The way you looked half asleep wearing his oversized hoodie after late study sessions because the observatory became freezing cold.

The quiet expression on your face whenever you think nobody is looking at you.

He wants to understand every version of you.

Because beneath every wall you built around yourself, Jimin keeps catching glimpses of someone gentle trying very hard not to be hurt again.

And for reasons he cannot explain yet, he wants to become someone safe enough for you to finally stop hiding around.

Even if it takes forever.

Chapter Two

A/N: This story is already completed with around 52k words and available for early access on my Ko-fi. Since Tumblr has words limits, I'll be splitting some chapters into multiple parts. Taglist is open if you'd like to be added. And please let me know your thoughts while reading because I love seeing your reactions, theories, favorite scenes, and emotional break downs with me.😭