Arnold Rimmer stared out the transparent Observatory dome at the distant stars. There were really so very few of them, at least visually. On Io, on any planet or moon surface he'd ever been, the stars somehow seemed closer, far more numerous. On land, one could give into fancy that the stars were just out of reach, plentiful and glittering and so very inviting. A world and worlds of their own, the source of everything good that would ever be. Reality, as it always did, ruined the pretty fantasy once he left the surface and entered the endless, empty expanse of space. Here the stars were distant, measured clinically in massive numbers created just for the use of outer space. Every one would require significant course changes just to approach, lengthy times in stasis to reach, and even then they would have to keep their distance to avoid being boiled or melted to death. On land, stars could be brushed with your fingers, cupped in your hand, permanently cool to the touch and forever glittering with promises. When far enough away, the impossible was possible.
He sighed; a deep, heavy movement that seemed to deflate his whole body. He hunched forward, chin in hands and elbows thrust into knees. His eyes never wavered from what was beyond the glass. Far enough away…. Everything is possible. His eyes softened in sadness, his face more relaxed and natural when alone than when around others. If anyone had been passing by and looked in the door, they would have glimpsed a brief moment of true vulnerability. It would have been like looking into his soul.
He frowned at himself in annoyance and sat up straighter, the sadness melting into mere thoughtfulness. His blinks were slow and pensive as he stared aimlessly at his hands, not really seeing them. Seeing, instead, her. Another ship entirely, some God knew how many massive amounts of distance created just to measure how very far away he actually was from that star he wished he could touch. He imagined her, glowing like a star, shining with such a beautiful radiance, and he ached for her. He ached to be with her, to be held in her arms again. So very far away…. So very, unfairly impossible…. But he could dream. He could imagine, like the nights he stared up at the stars from his childhood bedroom on Io, that the impossible wasn't really so very impossible. He could pick out his star, hold up his hand, and imagine cupping it in delicate fingers. Caress the beautiful possibilities. Cherish the imagination of what might be, if the impossible could become possible. If all limits were removed.
She was still out there, somewhere. His star, his nirvana. His cherished realm of possibility, where the limits of being considered unattractive, unwanted, unlovable were loosed and he was just Arnold. Awkward, yes; always awkward. But still, impossibly, loved.
He stared out the window at a distant star as it twinkled, and he ached for her. He ached for her.