I had a dream about you. It wasn’t a bad dream. You didn’t fall in love with me, and I didn’t fall in love with you. but we cared about each other, in my dream, and then you left because you cared more about someone else than you did about me.
Not that I’m complaining, it’s just a dream, after all. And you aren’t real. And by real I mean “attainable”. You’re light years away, as you earthlings call them.
This morning was the first time I awoke alone in several years, and I have to say I quite enjoyed it. Sitting here, on this ship, thousands of light years from earth, I never thought it would be nice to be alone again. But it is nice. And the crew, the loud obnoxious crew, are all asleep now. It gives me time to think, to evaluate my dream about you, and to plot a new course.
Because the Alpha Star disappeared. That’s right, the one guiding light that we’ve known our entire lives, through generations, has disappeared. As a child, I’d hoped that my Aunt Pam would fly me there, ever since I discovered her powers — her strength, the gift of flight, her alien nature that eventually took her away to another world after she’d married Trident. Once she left, I knew there’d be no other way to get to the Alpha Star than to take myself there.
That’s why I joined this mission, and defied your wishes. But we only just met! Who are you, who were you, to try and tell me where I could take myself, where I could live my future?
But you know all of this already. Years ago, I told it to you, yelled at you. Years ago, I said goodbye to you. Then you had to wake me up by appearing in my dream.
I don’t like the medical programs we’ve built into the sleep chambers. They’re scary, they’re too real. Bringing us into our memories while we sleep and wait is a slow torture. We’re moving on to another planet, another sun, in another system that’s farther, even, from the Alpha Star. You’ll never see this message, but just in case you fall asleep and somehow this reaches you, just know that, well, maybe I did love you.