Dedicated to those who can find a little magic in everyday life.
Lights are off in Observation Room 3. It's late in the Alpha fake night, but I really can't sleep. I lock the room, so that nobody would disturb me. Not that people enter here very often, but I don't want to risk.
The place is silent, except for the soft, ever present humming of the ship in the background. Despite the dark, I can see quite clearly. The wide window panel lets the stars outside shine in the room, casting me and everything else in their cold, glowing pallor. I don't feel like turning on the lights, so I simply sit by the window, head up looking out.
For just one tiny moment, my mind is filled with the soothing nothingness I never fail to experience when contemplating the peace of space.
It doesn't last long. I close my eyes, trying to prolong the sensation, but my conscious mind offers me a selection of troubled thoughts and I sigh, admitting defeat. I came here to sort out my issues, anyway.
I briefly look around me in the dim light. Probably an unconscious stalling technique. The room is tiny, uncharacteristically void of equipment. Of course the wall are covered with monitors, but the rest of the room is empty, except for a few very practical chairs by the window. The very same I'm currently sitting on.
I've always had the curious feeling that the room had been added almost on an afterthought. That's also the reason I like it so much, it's clashing, in a way.
I put my feet on the chair in front of me and resume my stargazing.
No point in avoiding issues, isn't it?
Now that I'm allowing my thoughts to run free, my mind is full of images, voices, feelings... confused and yet so clear. I try to focus on single things, but I soon discover that it's useless. I must gather meaning from the entirety of it all. Slowly I find myself finally able to discern the subtle bubble of distress that's been hiding below the surface. There's pain, discomfort and inadequacy, and my eyes begin to water in response. I've been feeling this way for some time lately, but until now I've refused to face myself, blaming just about everything but the real reason.
I sink further in my chair, my head angled up so that the only thing I can see is the grey ceiling of the room. I level my breath to a regular and steady pace, trying to get rid of the tears I sense forming in my eyes. I wonder if I'm unconsciously matching a Vulcan technique for meditation. Probably.
My mind connects meditation with Spock, and I suddenly close my eyes in a pang of pain that makes me lose my breathing pattern.
For a while we've been so close that I thought it could easily last forever. After the Narada and in the aftermath of Vulcan, Spock was broken. Rightfully so, obviously. Not only had he lost his planet, but also his mother and on the top of all he received the shock of dealing with an older version of himself, no less. You could lose your mind for things like that. Hell, I'm sure I'd lose mine for just one of those things.
A broken Spock I could handle, because his human side was always on the surface and it was only natural to help him through.
Our relationship, strictly platonic before, became more intense, the physical side of it very predominant in its newness and force. We never indulged in physical contact before then. I guess we both needed that at that moment. I was Spock's logical (and willing) choice to relieve the pain, sorrow and confusion.
I've always found Spock to be (ironically) the perfect man: intellectually challenging, willing to listen, respectful and refreshingly coherent. I used to think that he was everything I ever wanted.
Then the Narada happened and I discovered that once in a while I still felt the thrill to be useful to someone I love. Being strong for Spock and enjoying it got me thinking that maybe I was in love with him. And him being confused and not his usual self fooled both of us that he also loved me.
Once the effects of the tragedy began to wear off, he must have understood something more about himself and reached some sort of conclusion on his nature, because he gradually became the perfect Vulcan. That left me dealing with the resultant very polite, very correct, very accurate and very distant Spock. Lovemaking stopped.
Day by day I sensed Spock drift away from me, shielding his mind against mine and effectively hiding his human heart from my love. The whole process had us being officially together without being actually together.
I've fallen out of love since then, now I know. I still love him, but I need more that the initial intellectual challenge. Somehow this isn't enough any more.
I want love, passion, fights, joy, sorrow, jelousy, raw sensations. Humanity.
And now, contemplating stars and life here in this room, I finally accept that I can't go on like this forever. I won't give him my life any more, although I'll probably continue to give him my love.
I'll do what's right for both of us and free ourselves of this shadow of a relationship. It will hurt and maybe in my case it will be messy, but I'll do it nonetheless. I owe him and myself just this honesty.
My new resolution makes me feel better. I pass my hands on my face to wipe away the tears.
The room keeps humming in the dark, like a soft caress to my sensitive ears.
I smile weakly at the familiarity of this environment built for other forms of observation, which use I've conveniently turned to my benefit over the last few weeks of my very human necessity.
I stand and glance at the window. The stars capture my sight for a moment, long enough to start feeling that soothing nothingness again.
Taking a deep breath I walk to the door, unlock it and stand right in the middle of the two sliding panels. I turn and take one last look at the still darkened room. Snorting softly I ask myself which "necessity" will make me end up here next. But I feel better, lighter: so much for a clashing room, Observation 3 has once more worked its magic.
END