Dear Eun-ha,
Your words are like light glancing off water. I read them, and for a moment I’m there with you, floating, the earth a slow-turning marble beneath your feet. I love the way you describe the world—as if the sky confides its secrets only to you.
But there’s something I have to tell you. Not everything. Just enough so you understand why I feel… different these days.
A few nights ago, I was at the lab late. Two men from the space program came in, talking like the room was empty. They didn’t see me. They spoke quietly, but the words were sharp enough to cut the air.
They were talking about your capsule, Eun-ha. About the heat shield. One of them said he’d seen images from the station’s external cameras. Said too many tiles might have come off during launch. That maybe the shield wouldn’t hold if it had to face the violence of reentry.
He didn’t say it outright—but I heard it in his voice: that the capsule might burn up. That you might never come home.
And there’s more. I keep hearing talk of oxygen levels dropping on the station. People say it’s under control. But I don’t know who to believe anymore.
I didn’t want to tell you any of this. I still don’t. You’re up there, alone, carrying enough weight already. But the thought of pretending… I can’t. You deserve the truth—or at least a sliver of it.
Don’t panic, please. Maybe they’re wrong. Maybe the engineers will fix it. They always say space is all about margins, calculations, risk. Maybe the odds are still in your favor.
I wish I could crawl into that sky and pull you back down myself.
But until then… tell me about the lightning storms. About the stars listening to your secrets. Let me hold onto your voice. It’s the only thing keeping me from drowning in all the things I can’t say.
Promise me you’ll be careful. And promise me, if there’s ever a choice to stay safe, you’ll choose it. Even if it means waiting longer to come home.
I love you, beyond the limits of atmosphere and reason.
Yours, trembling between earth and sky,
Myung-ho
Myung-ho
Eun-ha
