Myung-ho, my gravity,
I’m floating as I write this. Literally. The pen moves strangely, my hand drifts without asking, and the paper keeps trying to escape me. Outside, Earth turns—quiet, blue, alive.
The station hums, zips, falters. Lights flicker sometimes. But it holds. We hold.
Today I passed over something I think was Istanbul. Or maybe Cairo. So many lights, so much motion. I watched cities wake up and fall asleep, oceans blink in silver, clouds fold over mountain ranges. From here, borders dissolve. Only rhythms remain.
And yet, I thought of home.
I thought of Pyongyang’s grid, sharp and orderly. The faint glow of our rooftop after lights-out. The sound of you laughing at the stars because they seemed smaller than you expected. I miss that. I miss you.
Sometimes I wonder—if our system is so strong, why are we not allowed to leave? Wouldn’t we return anyway, if it truly held us? Wouldn’t love be enough to bring us back?
Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe being up here makes everything feel fragile. The air is filtered, the water recycled, and even the silence feels processed. But when I look down at the world spinning beneath me, I feel something raw. Something unscripted.
I imagine you walking the streets, stopping by that corner vendor who still makes those sweet rice cakes. I imagine you pausing, looking up, trying to guess if I’m overhead. Maybe I am.
I’ll be home soon. And when I am, let’s go back to the rooftop. Let’s look up again—not for missions or milestones, just for the sheer pleasure of it. I want to hold you. Not in zero gravity, not as a projection through wires and static—but truly. Skin and breath and warmth.
Until then,
orbiting you always,
Eun-ha
Eun-ha
Myung-ho
