It makes my stomach flip in a combination of excitement and nerves. It’s a bit scary, in a grown-up, mature way. There’s so much pressure, so much I don’t know how to do. Things I’ve only ever read about in fics.
I can’t think of anything that could make my life better right now. Except maybe for time to hurry up, for The Eternity to bring my J to me sooner.
We have everything in common. J is so thoughtful and funny and cute. Talking to him is so easy. It’s exactly how I imagined talking to a boy would be, back when I only had Jayden to practise on, in my imagination.
I want to make him happy more than anything else. As long as J is happy, everything will be OK.
From: The Infinity Sent: 23/10/2067
To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 08/11/2067
J,
I feel the same way about writing to you. It’s like everything I’ve been struggling to understand about myself just makes sense when I tell you about it. You make it hurt less. It’s crazy how much I have to say to you every single day. I think we would definitely have been friends in another life. I don’t know how we couldn’t be.
Today I found a secret stash of chocolate in the stores. It was hidden behind some boxes of mushroom soup, near the ladder. I think it was my dad’s secret supply. He had a massive sweet tooth, unlike my mother. He must have been hiding all the chocolate behind the soup he knew we wouldn’t eat – I hate mushrooms – so that he could sneak off to eat it. I can just imagine him gorging on sweets before returning with salmon fillets for dinner, saying we needed to eat more healthily. The image makes me feel happy and sad and tired, all at once.
I hardly ever find chocolate in the stores, so I’d like to eat it, but I can’t bear to. It would be like another part of him is gone for ever. However much I’ve tried to keep him with me – not disturbing his bunk, his notebooks, his toothbrush and razor – every trace of him will disappear in the end, like he was never here at all.
We were all really happy when I was little. This ship wasn’t some terrifying place to be, back then. I loved it. I would have been distraught at the thought of leaving.
My mother used to tell the kind of silly jokes that would make me and Dad laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe. She taught me how to do origami, and after every meal I’d carefully collect up all the food packets and wash them, then unfold them to use as origami paper. We got obsessed with it – we made this whole zoo of animals.
They were both really great parents. Up until the astronauts died.
R xx
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
120
I keep hearing the astronauts. They scratch at the hull of the ship with fingernails like claws, scurrying across the outside of the ship in a series of thudding bangs. At night they scrape at the airlock, filling my ears with the high-pitched squeal of metal when I’m trying to sleep.
I tell myself that it’s just the noise of the engine, or space debris. But when I follow the sound, it stops. When I look out of the porthole, they hide. But I know they’re there. They know I’m here, tracking them.
They freeze when I start listening. They don’t want to be caught. The astronauts are clever. They’re patient.
I’m getting desperate.
From: The Infinity Sent: 28/10/2067
To: The Eternity Predicted date of receipt: 12/11/2067
J,
There are so many changes happening on board The Infinity. I’m so ashamed that I can’t cope with all the efficiency improvements, even though they’re for the good of the ship.
The UPR have now asked me to only flush the toilet once a day, and reduce my showers to once a fortnight. Even if they’re short showers, I’m used to washing every other day. I’m going to smell awful if I only wash once a fortnight.
I suppose I’d better savour my last shower, because I’ll have forgotten what it feels like by the next time I have one.
I can’t wait until we can be together. You make me feel safe in a way that nothing else does any more.
R xx
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
106
By the time two weeks have passed and I’m allowed to take another shower, I’m desperate to wash. My hair feels like cardboard, and I’ve got acne all over my back and chest.
I tip my head back under the warm stream of water, memorizing the feel of it over my skin. It’s pure heaven. I wash my hair four times to get rid of all the oil, rubbing my fingers over the strands and revelling in their new softness.
I can get used to infrequent showers, I suppose. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. After the first week, I stopped noticing how I smelt. It was only really bad when I was on my period. And it is for the good of the ship, after all.
But when I wash away the suds, I notice that my hands are covered in dark hair from my scalp. Layers of it twist around my fingers and follow the lines of my palms.
My hair is falling out. What if there’s something wrong with me?
Soaking wet, I run to the computer and type “hair loss symptoms” into the medical subroutine. Holding my breath, I skim-read the list of causes: MALE PATTERN BALDNESS
DRUG-INDUCED
STRESS
Hair loss is a symptom of stress. Understandable.
I hope it’s limited to a few strands. I’ve never really cared what I look like – it’s never really mattered before. But with J arriving, suddenly it does. I can’t handle the thought of him seeing me and being … disappointed. What if J thinks my body doesn’t live up to my personality? What if I’m so unattractive that he decides even our friendship can’t make up for the way I look?
Taking careful breaths, I avoid thinking about it. If stress is causing the hair loss, then I’m only going to accelerate the process by worrying about it. I need to stay calm.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
104
Today is my birthday. I’m going to make a cake.
I scour the stores for chocolate pudding and brownies, which I mix into a sticky mess that I shape into something round and vaguely cake-like. I stir together sugar, water and powdered milk to make a kind of icing, and scrape it on top of the chocolatey cake, curling it up into rough peaks. It’s messy and inelegant, but it looks cheerful.
I don’t have a candle to put on top – that’s far too much of a fire hazard for space – but I twist up seventeen scraps of paper and stick them in the icing, colouring the ends a bright orange.
Seventeen. I feel a lot older.
As I pretend to blow out the candles, a wish flashes through my mind without me even needing to think about it: I wish J were here.
Then I stretch out in bed on my stomach and eat cake until I feel sick. I can’t help wondering what my next birthday will be like. J will be here by then. I’ll be turning eighteen.
Just the thought of J sends electric shivers from my fingers to the tip of my toes. I want him to kiss me. I want to feel his fingers wrapped in my hair.
I want him, not just his words; I want his body too. Writing letters isn’t enough – it’s never been enough.
I wonder whether J will give me a birthday present. A birthday kiss.
The thought deserves my complete attention. I roll over, and push my pyjama bottoms off my hips.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
103