Chapter 12
TROKA
Outside, the neon haze clouds my vision. The air tastes of exhaust, ozone, and possibility. My boots step hard on the concrete. Each click echoes in my head.
I pull pack tighter across my shoulder as if it could keep out pain.
I don’t know where I’m going. Anywhere but here. Somewhere that doesn’t remind me of her voice.
I end up at the plaza, where the holoscreen flickers with war news—honors, casualties, rites of return. My unit’s insignia flashes. I stop in the crowd, parts of me merging into humanity. I should feel pride. I should feel home. Instead, I feel hollow.
A kiosk nearby sells spice-glazed nuts. I grab a handful, hot in my palm. The spiciness burns the tongue. I bite. The flavor jagged—sweet, smoky, too much. I swallow fast, grit through the burn.
I glance at my compad. The message from her still sits, unopened. I want to open it. If she’s moved on… if she hates me… I need to know.
But fear coils around my throat. If it says she lied because she hated me, I’ll never recover. If it says she lied because she loved me… that’s worse. To imagine what she couldn’t bear to say.
I tuck the compad away. Pretend it’s not there.
Later, I find myself walking past medical tents where returning soldiers get treatment. Injured men wrapped in bandages, one-armed, limping. They stare at me, see what warwise looks like. I nod. They nod. We share less and more than words.
One medic looks me over. “Back again?”
I nod. “In for a few days.”
She studies me. Pain stacks my shoulders. She tries to say something. Stops.
Because she knows.
Because everybody knows.
Evening comes. I return to the lounge—not to plead. Not to confess. But to be near the echo of her.
The air inside is thick, hazy. The bar feels smaller now. Crowded. Warm. Too loud. Or maybe I’m just loud on the inside.
I stand silently at the back, watching her. She moves. Calmly. Controlled. But the tremor in her hands when she pours—barely noticeable—gives me away.
She doesn’t acknowledge me. Doesn’t glance sideways. Doesn’t speak. She just keeps working.
I catch Jorla’s eye. Her jaw twists. She offers a sympathetic look. I nod once, not asking for pity.
I step toward the bar. She lifts an eyebrow. The razored line of distance between us snaps tight.
I drop a credit chip. The clatter sounds like a gunshot.
She glances at it. “Trouble paying?” she says cool.
“Depends,” I answer. “If I get the truth.”
She sets a glass on the bar in front of me. “You gonna drink that—or scold it?”
I take it. I hold the warmth. Breathe in the scent, clean glass, residual whiskey, the faintest hint of her cologne. She’s too close for comfort.
I lean back. “I heard rumors. Other Vakutans asking your number at the cantina. Saying you smiled more lately.”
Her face stutters. A spark of hurt or anger? It flashes bright and then is gone. “So what if I did?” She sets her jaw. “Does that prove anything?”
I don’t lie. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”
She laughs—harsh, brittle. She wipes the counter. “You expect courtesy and cooing while you walk back in after silence?”
I shrug. “I deserve honesty.”
Silence spreads. I take a sip. The burn warms my chest. I stare her down. She doesn’t flinch.
Then I lean forward. “I want what I’m owed,” I growl softly. “Not pity. Not forgiveness. Truth.”
She stares, eyes dark. Lips press. Bartender mid-cleaning stops motion. Patrons glance. The air crackles.
She finally speaks, voice small but sharp, “You lost that right when you left.”
That wound opens—deeper than I expected.
I fight not to wince. I gather control. “Maybe I lost the right. But I flew out of my skin when I walked back in.”
She doesn’t answer. She turns away from me—starts stacking glasses. But her frame trembles just a fraction.
I reach out—my glove hesitates—then stows it. I will not demand. I will not force.
“Just let me stay in your orbit,” I murmur. Soft. Raw.
She sets glasses down, hands trembling. Her voice is wind in glass. “You don’t get to orbit me. Not anymore.”
And she walks away.