We are on the brink

And a finger of smoke curls toward the sun. One long trail, curved, as if beckoning the sky to come closer and the sun to press its blazing ear to the desert floor. Beneath the smolder, a secret is sinking into the sand, waiting to tell its story.

Our story.

Around the fumes, this world snakes between sun-drenched gold and brutal blue. Wicked heat beats down on my face and the sand swallows my ankles—sucking up to my knees and burning through the thickness of my pants.

I inhale, breathing in the stifling air.

It’s the first time this air has stirred inside of me. It’s heavy—thicker than the fabricated atmosphere I’ve known since birth—layer by layer melting my skin, ripping it from my bones. Hotter than the flames which hurled past my ship on the way down here. Fiercer than the wrath waiting for me overhead.

And as if the heat wasn’t enough, the sun’s rays reflect off the sand. They blind me. The intensity of it pierces my eyes and I squint—my vision being reduced down to a thin line, practically an extension of the horizon.

I lift a hand—letting the sand specks float off my fingers and venture back down to the masses beneath me—to see the skyline. The thin, hazy black border ripples with the heat. It’s hard to pinpoint any real movement. Dread fills my stomach as I wait for something familiar to emerge from the smoke. Something. Anything.

There.

I see movement fighting against the heat. It surges forward, stumbling through the waves. Despite the sunlight hitting it, the figure slowly comes into view—a single black spot morphing into a familiar silhouette.

Owen.

I scream his name. The words drown in the space between us—floundering in the folds of sand—submerging under the coarse blanket of this wasteland. I don’t wait for his voice, his reply, to carry to my ears.

I’m already running.

The cords and wires of my parachute tangle behind me. I am a puppet on strings—throwing, tossing, and swinging my limbs to be free from its grasp. My hands fly across the buckles of my harness. At last, its grip falls from my chest, and I stumble forward, nearly faceplanting into the bends of russet, sienna, and bronze dotting this expanse.

Owen.

I waste no time.

I leave the ruined spacecraft and my harness. The past will deteriorate into the earth, quietly, and swept with sand. I will not miss the stories held in its chambers. I will not linger on the emotional residue smeared on the harness’s clasps. There is nothing left for me in them, nothing to be salvaged in these badlands.

Only Owen.

He’s fighting to reach me. I can see the ferocious clouds of dust kicking up behind him as he moves. Desperation clings to each glance, relief rides on each breath. I can see my name on his lips. Then, in an instant, the gap closes.

I catch him—our legs folding beneath us and our breaths mixing in a haphazard rhythm. We cling to each other. Foreheads touching. Sweat and tears collecting on our cheeks. Eyes squeezed shut, letting our hands say what words cannot.

Owen’s palm finds my cheek—rough grains of sand rolling between his skin and mine. His fingers dig into the back of my neck and his thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone. A bead of sweat runs a cold knuckle down my spine.

“Did we make it?” Owen rasps, already knowing the answer, but too afraid to place the words carefully into the universe, “Are we finally alone?”

Sweat gums my eyelashes as I pry them apart.

The desert is burning under the sun’s glare—the only face that has seen this world for centuries. I know sitting deep beneath its floor, cowering under the sand dunes and the arid mounds, is the blood of our ancestors. Left here and forgotten.

Like us, hopefully.

Fear grips my stomach as I raise my chin to the sky. Blue overflows the silver clouds brimming on the edge of existence, and when I strain my eyes—searching as far into the vast expanse of space my vision will let me return to—a satellite gleams.

I wait.

There are no shuttles following in our wake. No ships breaking through the atmosphere. No soldiers squatting in the sand, readying their weapons, and demanding our return home. Like the sun, the satellite catches my eyes and holds my stare. Silent and alone.

Alone.

I tighten my grip on Owen. He lets out a shuddering breath, reeking of both relief and fear. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. There is no one for him to see.

Because we are finally free.

The undercurrent of what we’ve done—the community we have abandoned and will never return to—demands our eyes to open. This world sings the freedom we longed for, fought for, and pried our last licks of sanity for. There is so much to be seen, and this desert—hellish, hot, and holy—is the true oxygen for my spirit. It is the soul of our new home.

I cup Owen’s cheeks as if I were holding fresh water in my palms. Slowly, I lower my lips to his ear, and murmur to him like a first prayer to our newfound gods.

“Yes, my love, we are finally alone.”