There are two kinds of meetings in life: those where you shake hands and forget, and those that rip the fabric of your reality, leaving you irreversibly changed. The distinction, though subtle, separates the two like distant stars in the cosmic sky. The day Nevaeh waltzed into my orbit, the latter happened.

We crossed paths on the enigmatic thirtieth of February—a date you might snidely insist doesn’t exist. However, history speaks otherwise. Sweden recorded such a date in 1712, and the Soviet Union logged it twice, in 1930 and 1931. Believe it or not, that paradoxical date materialized once more, on the same axis of time and space as Nevaeh and me.

Our initial encounter took place a smidgen earlier, during our embarkation on the grand space station Orion-7. Alongside a throng of fresh astronaut recruits, our eyes gleamed with the anticipation of interstellar quests. The very fabric of the galaxy seemed to stretch infinitely, stuffed with a plethora of unexplored possibilities. Nevaeh and I broke the ice because we found ourselves confined to the same cramped shuttle pod. By the time the spacecraft’s docking clamps latched onto Orion-7, we’d traversed enough conversational galaxies to consider ourselves allies in this cosmic adventure.

Veteran astronauts—weathered spacefarers prepping to pass on their celestial batons—indoctrinated us. Specifically, they tutored us on the intricacies of Hangar Bay 5, drilling the protocols of the Continuum Portal, Faraday Safety Net, and the cryptic Chronal Umbilical Cord into our minds. During these sessions, Nevaeh’s seasoned mentor displayed her Riftsuit like a sacred artifact, detailing the intricacies of its instrumentation. Although the seasoned astronauts maintained an air of solemn decorum, their politeness was a fortress, never allowing camaraderie to breach its walls. We young recruits formed an ecosystem unto ourselves, connected to the veterans by nothing more than a fraying tether of professional courtesy. An exception was Caruthers, the aged astronaut shrouded in whispers. The rumors said he had stepped unprotected into the Continuum Portal and returned… altered. No one dared utter the word ‘crazy,’ but warnings circulated among us to steer clear.

Nevaeh and I, and the rest of the cadet, too, I suppose, were itching to take our first trip through the portal, but tachyon and neutrino activity kept us from breaching the rift. Invisible to the naked eye, but watching the storms on the instrument panels was my favorite; although they kept us from time traveling, I waited for a scope to hit the flatness of the horizon and erupt it. I waited for a surge.

It was during one of these waiting periods that Caruthers approached me. I was staring at one of his intricate sculptures, mesmerized by its complexity.

“They’re breadcrumbs for those who want to go where they shouldn’t. A map for the desperate or the foolish,” he said, standing beside me.

He was not always the station’s recluse. Once a promising astronaut and one of the pioneering engineers of the Continuum Portal, he’d been married to Lena, a brilliant physicist. A lab accident claimed Lena’s life and a desperate Caruthers broke the rule we all swore by—he entered the portal without a Riftsuit. He returned, but he was not the same. Neither confirming nor denying the whispers about his altered state, he drifted into the background, focusing his creativity on these abstract sculptures.

“But why breadcrumbs?” I asked, still staring at the sculpture. “Why not a map or a guide?”

“Maps can be followed or ignored,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Breadcrumbs lure you, intrigue you. They invite you to get lost.”

Just then, my gaze met Nevaeh’s across the room. She was staring at the portal, lost in her thoughts. I knew she was planning, imagining. It was a gaze I recognized well, full of breadcrumbs leading to a place we might never return from.

Finally, the moment arrived. We attempted to breach the walls of time and space, to tear a hole into the past for the promise of a recalibrated future. But each expedition was met with a forceful pushback from the chronal waves, as if time itself refused to relinquish its secrets to us, as if we were children attempting to unlock a forbidden vault.

Time became our fixation, our muse, and our tormentor. As days stretched into monotonous months, a kind of existential lethargy settled over us. We began to question: were we equipped to dance with these relentless temporal waves, or were we doomed to exist merely as cosmic observers?

It was during one such contemplative moment that I found my gaze drifting towards Nevaeh. She stood there, her eyes fused to the swirling vortex of the portal. The subtle tension in her jaw signaled an internal world awash in turbulent thought. Then, without uttering a syllable, she sprang to her feet, her eyes meeting mine just long enough to exchange a silent pact. She lunged, clutching my hand as we both plunged into the abyss, devoid of Riftsuits, instrumentation, or safety nets. We faced the tempestuous chronal waves, which met us like an impenetrable barrier.

When you collide with a wave of that magnitude, it’s electrifying, excruciating, and yet inexplicably imbued with a glimmer of hope. I felt her grip loosen as a wave propelled her in another direction, a final glimpse of her lavender tank top shimmering in the chaotic churn. I collided with something harsh and enigmatic, an entity that the chronal currents seemed to protect. Then, a surge swept me back, ejecting me from the continuum, back onto the station’s metallic floor. But Nevaeh—she never returned.

Since my return, I have become an outcast aboard Orion-7, facing disciplinary action for violating protocols and endangering the life of a fellow crew member. Charges are pending until the powers that be change Nevaeh’s official status from Missing to Deceased. The only person who will give me the time of day is Caruthers. Together, we speculate on the enigma that is Nevaeh, on what the universe saw in her that it failed to recognize in the rest of us. And we wait, watching the chronal readings for any sign, any indication that Nevaeh succeeded in her quest, that she’s somewhere rewriting the tapestry of existence. While Caruthers and I keep our vigil, the waves continue their never-ending dance. And somewhere in that perpetual rhythm, I feel her. Nevaeh is out there, lost but not forgotten, forever a part of the cosmic melody.