by William Yang|
Always a little too far away from you. Sometimes, half a world away. Other times, worlds away. We never seemed to be in sync.
Bought my ticket to Mars this morning, but then received your holo-mail this afternoon. “It’s not you, it’s me.” You told me. A years wage wasted on a useless ticket.
Months later I still decided to use the ticket. But from Mars I’ll be heading to Pluto Station. And from there, who knows.
At the spaceport as I sit and wait, a tentacle taps me on the shoulder. “Mars?”
“Maybe.” I smile.