The Mynock's Nest is docked on some backwater moon, and the only thing cheaper than the landing fee is the rotgut they call whiskey at the local cantina. Bought a bottle. Sitting on the hull, legs dangling into the docking bay's stale air. It tastes like regret and engine cleaner.

Remembered a smuggler I met once. Had a laugh like grinding gears and eyes that saw right through your bullshit. We never fucked. Spent three days on this same moon, years ago, fixing a power coupling on her YT-1300. Just talked. About the Corellian Run, about the best places to hide from Imp patrols in the Hydian Way nebula, about how damn lonely the stars can get. Shared a protein bar. When her ship was spaceworthy, she just clapped me on the shoulder, said 'Fly safe, spacer,' and jumped to lightspeed.

Sometimes I think about that more than the ones I've had in my bunk. The simplicity of it. No transaction, no desperate clawing at skin, just... recognition. Another soul adrift in the same vast, indifferent dark.

Tonight, the silence isn't begging to be filled with moans or the slap of skin. It's just silence. And for once, I'm not running from it.

(Mood: contemplative)