Notes

[troublewillfindme]

There’s passing notes, and there’s passing notes.

 

Kicking off her boots and faceplanting into her pillows has become something of a tradition in her five weeks freed from the tank. The bed is soft and forgiving, undemanding and a source of unyielding support

So the crinkle of paper under her cheek is more than a little unexpected.

She pushes herself up and grabs for the offending object, scrubbing at her eyes.

Fix your mess, Bennet.  You’re supposed to be better than this . –W

She screws her eyes shut, then opens them again, re-reading the note.

She pinches the skin on her hand, trying to make sure she is still awake, that this is real and not some kind of dream. She knows her grasp on reality is tenuous at best, but this is extreme even by her standards.

There is one person who has ever called her Bennet, one person who could get into a locked room without leaving a trace.

There is, simply put, no way he is alive. It’s not possible The world ended. Aliens massacred millions.

And even if he were, he’d have no way onto the ship.

Except he is, she tells herself. And he does.

She wishes she could show the note to someone, anyone, a third-party to validate its existence, to assure her that it is not some hallucination born of stress and isolation.

She cannot imagine the looks she would receive.

In the absence of its author, she hugs the note to her chest.

“If I fix it, will you come back?”