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Mission Day 1 (2047.4.27)
The instant the engines roared alive, every cell in my body lit up, pure adrenaline. It wasn’t fear. It was more like standing on the edge of a new continent, about to leap, and realizing no one on Earth has ever truly known this exact moment. The seat vibrated so hard my heartbeat synced to the metal. My jaw locked. All I could do was breathe and grip the straps. Inside, the world narrowed to pressure and noise. But out the window, Earth started pulling away, slow at first, then impossibly fast, shrinking like a secret you’re not supposed to forget. There’s a split second, right as the ground drops out and Mars becomes more than a word, when you understand: life just got divided into before and after. Mission Day 5 (2047.5.2) Five days in, and time feels slippery. Hours packed with checklists, yet the days already blur. Camille grinned when the tortillas showed up in the food locker, sealed in their vacuum packs like treasure. Bread is banned up here; crumbs would clog filters and drift into eyes. Tortillas are our stand-in for comfort food, proof that Earth still sneaks in around the edges. Leo, restless, started renaming the meal packs in Klingon. He says if Mission Control ever decodes them, at least they’ll laugh. Humor is the one thing that still lands, even when gravity doesn’t. The delay stretches longer each night. Four minutes out, four minutes back. “Goodnight” echoes as something hollow, like leaving a message for a stranger. I replay my sister’s words, but already they feel like they belong to someone else’s life. Maybe even someone else’s planet. Mission Day 22 (2047.5.19) Put art over the bunks, Touching Wonder. It’s just paper and pigment but somehow it’s become the unofficial nightlight for the whole crew. Camille says it’s “Make her dream of what Mars could become.” Art’s not on the official supplies list, but I’d trade a week of rehydrated stew for five minutes staring at it after a rough shift. Mission Day 45 (2047.6.11) Woke up with that classic puffy-face syndrome, fluid everywhere. Spent ten minutes trying to clear my ears, no luck. Camille said I looked “like a Picasso painting of myself.” Leo’s dosimeter reading is off again, but he insists he feels fine, says he’s holding out for superpowers. Meanwhile, I keep counting the pulses of light outside the hull. Space is quiet, but never still. Miss the wind. Just… wind. Mission Day 90 (2047.7.26) Ship’s halfway-point fanfare went off automatically, someone on the ground thinks we still need a pep talk at 40 million miles. Camille toasted with instant coffee in a pouch; Leo watched Earth shrink down to a pale dot and didn’t talk for an hour. We’re drifting toward a planet that, as Mission Control reminds us, “actively tries to kill you.” Progress, by another name. Mission Day 120 (2047.8.25) Spent most of today in the greenhouse bay. Hung Unexpected Blooms between hydro trays, wildflowers on Martian stone. Camille says it reminds her of her daughter’s garden; Leo says it’s “too bright, too stubborn, and that’s the point.” I started using it as a marker for orientation, every time the painting floats by, I remember we’re growing things out here, not just surviving. Mission Day 210 (2047.11.23) First boot on Mars. Camille tripped immediately and laughed so hard she fogged up her visor. Leo tried to stand but his knees had forgotten gravity. The air here presses down in a way you can’t train for. Dust clings to everything, finds seams the engineers swore were airtight. Never been more exhausted. Or more aware of every sound I make. Mission Day 213 (2047.11.26) Named the first module Anchor, not original, but it fits. Spent the day troubleshooting the CO₂ scrubber, Leo patched it with tape and profanity while Camille sang a sad song about Paris. Filter maintenance is our unofficial group therapy. Mars glows outside the viewport, cold and constant, daring us to call it “home.” Mission Day 225 (2047.12.8) Bolted Lush from Dust above the common table. Camille stared at it for five straight minutes, then just nodded, like she’d made a decision. Leo said it “softens the silence.” I watched the colors shift in the light and caught myself wondering how long it’ll take for the dust to claim the canvas. The paintings here aren’t just decoration; they’re navigation. Reminders. Mission Day 240 (2047.12.23) Held a movie night, Groundhog Day, which felt too on-the-nose. Camille rationed out real popcorn, said, “This is sacred, don’t ask again.” Leo almost choked from laughing. I kept glancing at the hatch, thinking about how the same steel door is the only thing between us and all that nothing. Mission Day 260 (2048.1.12) Built a “meditation garden” out of leftover solar panels and Martian rocks. Camille called it The Pause. Leo scavenged old circuit boards to make wind chimes, no wind, but the gesture’s enough. I added lavender tabs to the filtration system. Doesn’t smell like Earth, but it tricks the mind, which is most of survival. Mission Day 270 (2048.1.22) The bar is nearly operational. Leo rigged a carbonation hack for the water, called it “rocket science” and poured us “Martinis” that tasted like vitamins and electricity. Hung Journey of Treasures above the counter. Camille toasted “to impossible things.” Watching the paint catch the light here, you realize Mars keeps its treasures well hidden. Mission Day 285 (2048.2.6) After finishing the systems checks, we started work on the butterfly. A mechanical version of something to remind us of Earth, just to give a sense of normalcy. Camille said, “If we’re going to carry something forward, let it inspire and bring a piece of earth.” Mission Day 310 (2048.3.2) Group dinner, recited a poem over comms. Camille got teary, her mom’s birthday. Leo played a river recording. We all pretended we could feel water on our skin. Unexpected Blooms shone in the low light. Mars is still alien, but the ache isn’t only for what’s missing; sometimes it’s for what we’ve managed to keep. Mission Day 410 (2048.6.22) Opened the hatch, let the butterfly go. Leo handled it like a new hatchling; its wings flickered with carbon threads and sunlight. Camille whispered, “Fly, little guy.” We watched it rise on the tiniest Martian wind, out past the habitat. Standing there, it felt like we’d left a mark. |
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