When they said everything on the ship had to be recyclable, I didn't think they meant me.
She did. She meant me.
Watching her from across the mess hall, sitting so close to the medic from, what was it, Brazil, I feel myself disintegrate into a million plastic pellets of my heart and my motivation pool on the ground.
Black. Red. And some sort of brown.
I can't concentrate on the schematics. All lines blur toward her.
I hope building the shelters turns off the longing.
For now, a structural engineer with no structure has idle hands, empty and cold.