I really, really wish I didn't have to write this.
I wasn't sure what to do when I heard the news about Anton Yelchin. I just had a lot of thoughts running through my head, and I thought it would be good to write them down. I believe that he's in a better place now, but I also know that he will be missed by many, including us Trekkies. This is a sad time, but I hope that this piece helps to say what we're all thinking.
-Marcelle
It seems as though space has gone still for him.
No one can find words in the first few hours. Kirk paces the bridge until he feels as though he has worn a hole in the floor, the overwhelming urge to say something clawing at him. This is his job. He should be giving some kind of BS speech about how they're still a crew, and a family, and that pain is part of life and that they will pull through because that's what Chekov would have wanted.
But Kirk cannot bring himself to say those words. Because if he says them out loud, then the stillness of space is broken, and gravity will slam down on him.
If he speaks, then it's real.
His fists itch to hit something - anything - for no other reason than because it just isn't fair. Kirk burns with kind of selfish anger that he isn't sure if he wants to lose. Nothing has hurt more than this. Kirk has been punched in nearly every place on his body, kicked in very unpleasant areas, and felt his very life drain out of him. But the pain he feels in this moment is unmatched, because it is a different kind of hurt. It's one that Kirk can't fix. It's one that he can't control.
Never had he imagined that he'd be here. That he'd have to think about an empty navigator's chair, or a funeral in Russia, or what it will feel like to look down at the body of a boy who used to look up at him with bright eyess and call him Captain. A boy who had so much to offer, and so much to say, and was silenced too early. Kirk wants to shut off his mind and let this reality fade away, because it is too much to comprehend.
What will he say to Pavel Chekov's parents?
The rest of the crew has retreated to their rooms, and Kirk hardly blames them. He's only here on the bridge because he's still waiting for Pavel to come bursting through the door like he always does. He'd be rambling about one thing or another, curls askew and his smile as bright as the stars that surround them. Then he'd take his seat at the navigation center and punch in a series of commands that Kirk would never be able to make sense of, and the world would be free from the sick shadow of Chekov's absence.
If Kirk speaks, it becomes real. If he goes back to his room, it becomes permanent.
He will have to address them at some point, he knows. Kirk will have to talk to the crew, and look each of them in the eye.
He'll have to meet Bones's glare, the anger in his eyes directed at the universe in its entirety for doing this to them.
He'll have to see Uhura, her eyes just barely overflowing because she has to be strong, because Chekov would not want her to cry.
He'll have to watch as Scotty sorts through memories, through all the lessons he'll never get to teach the boy who wanted nothing more than to learn.
He won't have to search Spock's face for emotion, because it will be impossible to miss.
He will have to say "I'm sorry." to Hikaru Sulu, whose features will be scrawled in a strange mixture of fury and defeat, as though he wants to fight whoever let this happen but knows that it would be a fight he could not win, because winning would not bring back their friend. Their little brother.
Kirk is all too aware that the storm is coming. But for now, he wants to sit in the eye and let the clouds churn around him. He wants to just look out the window and count the stars, and let each one of them lead him back to Pavel.
Space has gone still for Pavel Chekov, and Kirk does not want to set it back in motion.
RIP Anton Yelchin.