"is this thing even gonna fly?"

in my cheap phone screen, your expression is usually pixelated beyond the point of recognition, but right now it's clearly dubious. makes me laugh as i move to grab another wet wipe. there's more grime on the inside of the ship.

"it's a good model, sturdy," i explain, "i think the owner just didn't take good care of it."

"dude, you should just saved your money and gotten a new one."

"and miss another new year's with you?"

today is new year's eve. the ship arrived just in time thanks to express shipping. it's a small, cheap pl△stic thing with scratched up windows and uneven grooves, but the seller posted a stargazing video with it up in space, small lightbulbs lining the walls blue and mid 2010's pop playing through tinny speakers and it was perfect, i had to get my hands on it.

you're a world away and we still call through the int◯rnet. your microphone is ancient and sometimes you have to yell to be heard. i imagine the sounds i can't hear, the quiet sighs and muttering under your breath. in my dreams you're in high definition, and i can zoom into your face so far i can see pores and individual strands of hair.

you roll your eyes. "you should have just booked a fl□ght."

i grin into the camera. "and miss exploring d△rk space with you?"

we talk til the sun rises. for me—your side of the screen slowly goes dark as your sun sets. we talk about exam season ("i am definitely not signing up for another one of that professor's classes."), we talk about our childhood. after we moved apart, we used to plan to meet every season, but we never had enough money for the trip. this time i don't have any plans. i just want to cross the sky with you.

mostly, i miss space.