Date: April 15th, 2132

  Day 133 - Third Rotation

  (Reflecting on events of April 14th)

  Storage transfer was completed yesterday morning. Whatever was in that delivery container is now secured in the finished unit. Six hours, specialized logistics crew, Dr. Chen overseeing every step. Sergeant Major Stratoskha posted security outside Main Lab the moment it was done.

  By evening someone had organized a celebration. "Morale event" they called it. The cafeteria common area, 1900 hours. Not mandatory but everyone showed up anyway - all 232 of us crammed in there. Smuggled alcohol appeared from somewhere. The food was still terrible station fare but no one seemed to care.

  I found Patel early on. We talked about his freighter mission - he leaves in four days, still nervous. Then Donovan approached us.

  GP-0096. The pilot. Tall, like I'd noted in my fuel calculations weeks ago.

  He recognized me from coordination meetings. Made a joke about antimatter conversion efficiency. I laughed. Too much, probably. I was already two drinks in.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Patel excused himself at some point. He gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes - forced, obvious. I could see the frustration underneath it. He knew what was happening. Then he left. Donovan stayed.

  I kept drinking. My hormones were all over the place - cycle just ended, sleep deprivation, stress compounding stress. I felt reckless. Like I wanted to feel something other than numb or broken.

  I made a move. He reciprocated. We went to his quarters.

  Then I couldn't go through with it.

  We were in his chamber. Door closed. And I just... stopped. Froze. My mind went somewhere else entirely. The walls felt too close. I could see the red door behind my eyelids even with my eyes open.

  He noticed. Asked if I was okay.

  I wasn't. I told him I'd changed my mind.

  To his credit, he didn't push. Offered to walk me back to my quarters. I said no. Left on my own.

  It's 0520 now. Morning of the 15th. Shift starts in forty minutes.

  My head is pounding. My mouth tastes like bad decisions and station whiskey.

  I don't know what I was thinking last night. I wasn't thinking. That's the whole problem.

  I need to stop running from things by running toward other things.

  I need to sleep.

  I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing.

  [Entry ends]