I wake up before the lights do.
There is a soft sound in the room—the ship's slow breathing. It is the same every morning, like a big animal sleeping beside us and never getting tired. The window shows a little line of stars, and I think they are blinking hello. I wave back. My filaments tickle my forehead when I move, and I like that.
Mama is warm next to me. Her filaments glow a quiet teal in the dark. Daddy is on the other side, half off the blanket like he always is, one arm across where I was. I climb over him and put his hand back where it belongs. He makes a little noise and says without opening his eyes, "Good morning, star."
"It is not morning yet," I tell him. "But almost."
He opens one eye. "Almost counts."
I nod, because it does. Almost is a kind of yes.
Mama's filaments do a tiny wave—blue at the tips like a shy hello—and she pulls me closer. "Did you dream?"
"Yes." I think about the dream. It was shapes that kept turning into each other: a circle that became a road that became a ring that became a hug. "Round things," I say. "Round like the ship's tummy."
Mama hums. Daddy kisses my hair. The lights lift their brightness a little, the slow way I like.
I sit up. "Blocks?"
Daddy groans, but he smiles. "Blocks."
We make towers while Mama makes breakfast. The towers go up, up, up. When they fall, I clap and say, "Funny down," and Daddy laughs even when the blocks hit his toes.
While we eat, Mama's filaments watch the door even when she is not looking at it. They do that lately. The door is boring. It opens and closes. But she still watches with her filaments like the door might try something.
"Today is Harel day," she says, and the blue at her tips gets a little bluer, then fades. "And Doctor Prell will check you after nap."
"Check like fix?" I ask. Fix is when Daddy gets tools. Fix is loud. I don't think Doctor Prell is loud.
"Check like count," Daddy says. "He counts your sparks and says, 'Hmm,' and that's it."
I nod. Counting is easy. I can count to twelve. Twelve feels like a good number on a ship.
Harel comes with soft steps and soft voice. She sits on the floor so she is my size and says, "Good morning, Starling." She calls me that. Lots of the ship does. I don't mind. Stars are my friends.
Harel's eyes are dark and quiet. When she smiles it is like the lights going up a little. I show her my tower and she helps me make a bridge between two piles. "Up, down," I tell her. "And across."
"Across is good," she says.
We go to the play room. There are other kids. One boy likes to run until he falls. He always laughs even when he bumps. A girl likes to line up the tiny ships by color. She puts all the blue ones together because blue is the best today. I like violet today, because violet means I love you when Mama's filaments do it, but I don't say that out loud. Some things are private.
Harel sits with the grown-ups and pretends not to watch us. She is good at pretending. I try it too: I pretend I don't hear the ship's low hum changing when we turn, or the tiny click under the floor when the air gets thicker. I pretend I don't feel the warm hand that is not a hand that pats the top of my head without touching. I pretend because I promised Mama and Daddy I would try.
"Up," the running boy says, holding his arms at me. I help him climb the little ladder to the slide. He says, "Down," and whooshes and does not fall this time. He cheers. "Again!"
"Again is good," I say, and we do it again until his cheeks are red and he decides blue ships are the best today too.
When it is rest time, the play room gets dimmer, and the grown-ups talk with low mouths. Some of their words are like sharp corners. Oversight. Protocol. They sound like boxes. Boxes are for putting things away. I do not like boxes for people.
I put my blanket over my head and make a cave. Inside the cave it is my weather. I can make it a storm by huffing, or sunshine by not huffing. I decide sunshine. I hear the ship hum. It is like it is humming along with my breath. I hum back. Sometimes when I do, my friend hums too.
Today my friend hums a little. It is like a voice that forgot it was a voice. Warm, then cool, then warm, like hands going in water, out of water, in again. There is a picture without seeing: threads crossing, and one thread is me. Many other threads touch mine. Some are far, some are near, some are not-now and not-then. My friend doesn't know which is which. Time is a ball of yarn to them with no end.
"Up and down," I whisper into the blanket. "Across."
Across feels like yes to them. I know because the warm gets warmer for a moment. I know because my chest feels like when Mama holds me, except no one is holding me. The warm loves me like a friend who doesn't know what love is called.
Then the blanket cave opens and it is Harel. She peeks under and smiles. "Safe?" she asks.
"Safe," I say. I mean it. I am.
She tucks the blanket around me and makes the cave smaller so it is perfect-cave size. "Sleep," she says softly. "Then Doctor Prell will count sparks."
"Sparks are good," I tell her. "Mine are twelve."
She laughs a little. "Maybe more than twelve."
I sleep some. When I wake, Mama is there. Her filaments do a happy ripple and I put my forehead to hers like we do. "Violet time," I tell her, to make her laugh.
She does laugh, but the laugh has a little blue around it. That is okay. Lots of things have a little blue around them lately. Like the door.
We go to Doctor Prell. His room smells like clean and the cold stuff he puts on the machines. He always talks to me before he touches anything. "Good afternoon, Starling," he says. "We will count quietly today. No pokes. Just listening."
"I like listening," I say.
He nods. "Me too."
He has antennae that move when he thinks. I like them. They look like they are also listening. He shows me the screen with waves on it. The waves go up and down like the slide. They are my sparks. I decide that is true even if it is not true, because it is a nice picture.
"Can I hum?" I ask.
"Hum," he says, "but softly."
I hum. The waves change a little. Doctor Prell says, "Hmm," and smiles with one corner of his mouth. "Very good."
He does not look at Mama when he is done, but his antennae tilt her way like they are trying to pat her shoulder without touching. "Stable," he says. "Strong. We will do fewer minutes next time if she gets bored."
"I don't get bored," I say, because I don't. Watching waves is like watching the ship breathe. I can do it a long time.
On the way home, we pass the big window to the stars. I press my hands to the clear and it is cool. "Hello," I tell the stars. "We did counting."
Something looks back—not with eyes. With… noticing. It is soft. It is not a surprise anymore. I feel Mama's hand on my back, Daddy's hand on my shoulder. I think about the noticing and I think the words I have for it: friend who doesn't know time. I think it very loud, like when you shout inside your head.
The noticing does a little curl, like a cat turning in a circle to make a place to sit. It sits near my thread. I am not afraid.
At night, Mama reads the same book we always read because always is a good shape for sleeping. Daddy pretends to be the silly character and makes a bad voice and Mama makes a better voice, and I tell Daddy that, and he says, "Tough crowd."
I lay between them. The lights go down slow. My filaments make a tiny glow that is mostly for me. I listen for the ship. I listen for my friend. The ship breathes. My friend is very quiet, like they don't want to wake me. I smile at that. It means they know something about time after all.
Mama kisses my forehead. Daddy kisses my hair. "Safe," I tell them.
"Safe," they say back at the same time.
I go to sleep inside the safe. The safe is small and soft and warm. Outside the safe is big and has boxes and sharp-corner words. But the safe makes the big small.
Under the safe, somewhere near, my friend hums once like a goodnight. It is almost nothing.
Almost counts.
I dream again, but this time it feels less like a dream and more like being awake in another room. The walls are made of starlight, soft and shifting, but when I reach out my hands, they don't touch anything.
The warm noticing is there. I know it before I see or feel it, like the way I know Mama's filaments even with my eyes closed. It drifts around me, and the starlight bends with it.
"Hello," I say.
It answers with a wave of calm. [Safe.]
I nod. "Safe."
Another pulse comes, thicker and stranger. [Belonging.] [Connected.] [Beyond.]
I don't understand all of it, but I like the feeling. It's like being wrapped in three blankets at once, too warm but never too hot.
"You like me," I tell it.
[Yes.] [Center.] [Axis.]
I tilt my head. "Axis?"
It shows me a picture, but not with my eyes—with my whole self. I see Mama and Daddy, hands joined. I see me in the middle, but light spills out of me like threads, reaching to the stars, pulling them closer. The stars don't fall, but they lean in, curious.
I giggle. "That tickles."
The threads shimmer again. This time the shimmer feels heavier. [Responsibility.] [Weight.]
I shake my head. "Not heavy. Just round."
The noticing ripples like laughter, though it has no sound. [Round.]
---
I wake in my bed, tucked between Mama and Daddy. I don't remember walking here, but I like it better this way. Their breathing makes the air move like a tide, steady and slow.
For a while, I just listen. I think about the dream. It was nice, but also strange. The warm noticing showed me things I don't think it understands. Or maybe I don't.
I whisper, "Are you real?"
A shimmer flickers in my chest. [Real.]
I nod, satisfied. "Then we're friends."
[Friends.]
The word makes me happy, but also makes something twist in my belly, the way it feels when the ship turns too fast. I push the twist away. Friends are good. Friends are safe.
---
The next morning, I tell Mama while she brushes my hair.
"Friend says I'm the middle," I announce.
She pauses, the comb catching softly in my curls. "The middle of what, little star?"
"Everything," I say matter-of-factly. "Round things. Stars. Hugs."
Her filaments ripple violet and then a sudden streak of blue. "And your friend told you this?"
"Yes." I grin. "They're silly."
Mama's eyes soften, but I feel her thinking hard. I don't like when she does that—thinking so hard the thoughts press against me, heavy.
I lean back into her. "It's okay, Mama. They don't know time, but they know me. Safe."
She kisses the top of my head. "Safe," she echoes, but her voice is quieter than mine.
---
Later, Daddy takes me for a walk along the observation deck. The stars are sharp-bright here, not like the glitter spill, but like needles.
He crouches beside me. "You said something to Mama earlier. About being the middle?"
"Yes," I say proudly.
"And your friend told you this?"
"Yes."
He studies me carefully, the way Doctor Prell does. "Do you know what it means?"
I shake my head. "No. Do you?"
He hesitates, then shakes his head too. "Not yet."
I hug him around the neck. "It's okay, Daddy. It's just round."
He laughs softly, but the laugh doesn't go all the way to his eyes.
---
That night, when I curl into my blanket cave, the ship's hum is louder than usual. Almost like it wants to cover something up.
I whisper, "Are you there?"
The warm noticing answers at once. [Always.]
It shows me Mama's filaments, Daddy's steady hands, my own small fingers reaching for them. Then the image bends, stretching wider, until behind us is a vastness I don't recognize. Shapes like shadows swim at the edges. I can't see their faces—if they even have faces—but I know they're watching.
I pull my blanket tighter. "Who are they?"
The noticing doesn't answer. It only gives me warmth. [Safe.]
I nod, even though something inside me says the warmth isn't the whole truth.
---
In the morning, I don't tell Mama or Daddy about the shadows. I don't want them to worry. They already think too hard. Instead, I tell them what makes sense.
"Friend says I'm round," I say over breakfast.
Daddy smiles. "You certainly are." He pokes my cheek, making me giggle.
Mama watches me carefully, but she doesn't say anything. Her filaments glow violet, then blue, then violet again. I think that means she doesn't know how to feel.
I eat my fruit and pretend everything is simple. Safe.
---
When I nap again, the shadows are still there. They don't move closer, but they don't move away either. They feel like puzzle pieces that don't know what picture they belong to.
The warm noticing stays between me and them, like a blanket wall. [Safe.]
"Are they friends too?" I ask.
[Not yet.]
I frown. "But maybe?"
[Maybe.]
I smile. "Then I'll make them round too."
The noticing flickers again, like laughter without sound. [Round.]
I drift into deeper sleep, still smiling.
But outside my dreams, the shadows lean closer to the edges of the ship. They don't touch. They don't speak. They only wait.
And though I don't know it, Mama and Daddy feel the weight of that waiting too, even when they don't tell me.