text: Silence. Darkness. I open my eyes and only see the blinking light of “Warning: Low Oxygen” on my HUD. Seeing that only made me more anxious. The distant planets in my peripheral make the situation at hand seem way worse. Or maybe it is this bad. All I know is that I’m probably going to die by suffocation. Not the worst way to go, but it still is a sucky death. I had thought being in space was the coolest thing ever. But they never tell you how scary it is. No, they completely leave out that part. They don’t tell you what happens when debris disconnects you from your ship. They don’t tell you what happens once you run out of oxygen. They only promise you heroism when you get home. If you ever get home. It’s depressing. Honestly, I’d rather die by an explosion than slowly suffocate in this deep, dark, vacuum. I don’t know how much time has gone by. There is no concept of time in this void. Maybe I’m mere moments from my death. I’ve been floating for a while, though. There’s nothing sadder than being in a different galaxy, lightyears away from your family, on the brink of death. Well, maybe there is, but in my situation, nothing tops this. There’s really nothing like floating in the nothingness that humbles you. I miss my family. Stumbling upon my front door ripped me away from my thoughts. How did this end up out here? I looked around and saw the distant space station and the planets then in front of me. The door was still there. I touched the doorknob and it felt real. I opened it and saw an empty house. I looked down and saw I was still in my suit. I walked towards my kitchen and saw my wife and my two kids. My wife was ecstatic to see me, exclaiming how she thought I’d never come home. My children ran to hug me as well. I looked around, confused as hell. What was going on? Had I just been dreaming? Why did everything feel so real? I remember entering the spaceship, the explosion, the failing signal back to the shuttle. I remember the day I told my wife I had been accepted into the program, I remember her face, my children’s faces. I remember everything leading up to now. I looked down at my children, then to my wife. This feels so real. “What’s going on?” I exclaim. My wife looks at me in confusion. My children laugh and tell me I’m silly. “I suppose the mission went well?” She smiles at me. My heart breaks. I don’t know what’s going on. “What do you mean?” I gulp. There’s a tightness in my throat. I feel like crying. God, my throat hurts. “The mission is over now. You don’t have to worry anymore. Just let go.” She keeps smiling at me. It’s like poison. I don’t like it. “Wha... What do you mean?” My throat keeps constricting. I can’t bring myself to say anything anymore. I can’t think anymore. Any words coming to mind immediately vanish. They burn in my mind. My throat keeps tightening. “Just let go. You’ll meet us soon.” I look up. “What do you-” I look up to see the void again. My HUD now displays a message that says “No Oxygen”. My throat keeps tightening. I want to cry. I don’t have the strength to. I gulped one last time. *Let go*. Her voice remains in my head. I close my eyes and see her. I see her. I want to hold her, I want to hold my children. I want to go home. I just have to let go, right? Then I’ll be able to see her. I need to stop clinging to the little amount of life I have left and accept my death, right? I want to see them, my family. I yearn for her touch again. I’m going to die, right here, in this void and no one will ever find me. I’ll never see my children grow up. I’ll never see my children graduate high school or college. I’ll never see my children get married, and have kids, I’ll never be able to grow old with my wife. I’ll be forgotten. And that’s depressing. I open my eyes for maybe the last time and see a distant shuttle coming towards me. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. If they had seen my transmission minutes earlier, maybe I would be able to see my family. Some part of me hopes they reach me in time. I hope they get to me in time, send me home, and I can live my life again. I can see my wife and my children. I can go back to my 9-to-5 job. I can go back to living like a regular person. The pressure in my brain leads to me to believe that won’t happen. The lightheadedness and my fading vision lead me to know that won’t happen. I close my eyes again. The last thing I ever want to see is my wife. But I can’t remember what she looks like. I open my eyes again and turn my head slightly. The sight of the galaxy, the alien planets, and the red sun look so beautiful. So very beautiful.