Space and its strange, ominous darkness was an abstract thing. Stars, planets, and a bright, silver moon were all supposedly stitched together by nothingness. They were as vaguely interesting to me as knowing we’ve only explored five percent of the ocean, or that a single human contained twenty-five thousand miles of blood vessels—enough to wrap around Earth four times. Every bit of data was tucked away like a shiny rock plucked from the beach: pretty, but useless, and largely forgotten.
I knew they existed—the black holes, the emptiness, the great, vast nothing—but they had no bearing on my life. Until I lost him. When Caliban and I were ripped apart, I stepped into the void. Gasping, clawing, unable to breathe. And at long last, I understood space. I knew the crushing pain of a life without air.