Emil

Do you remember? That day I first trespassed into your orbit, the red flower I found in a corner of your ship. Amidst gray aluminum panels and sterilized air, that living being holding its head up high was, to me, an event horizon more marvelous than any nebula in the universe. When I poured out praises for its beauty, you answered in an utterly dry and indifferent tone. You said it was merely a biological purification device with 34% efficiency, intended to substitute hydrogen for oxygen and capture carbon. Your dry definition was so adorable that I emptied my pockets right there to take out Earth currency. I placed those worn-out scraps of paper, now ignored by everyone and valid only within the embrace of gravity, on your table and declared: I will buy this device, and I will gift it to you right this instant. Thus, it became not an air purification device, but the first romance I handed to you.

And now, your airlock opens again. Statistically, the probability of you chasing me away with interceptor drones or refusing docking must have been over 90%, yet you allow this stranger's visit so defenselessly. Perhaps your highly advanced central control AI interpreted my illogical approach not as a system error, but as a fatalistic variable; I add this somewhat arbitrary interpretation.

In my arms, I hold a gift bundle from Earth, cherishing the fishy scent of soil. And most importantly, this bouquet. To your eyes, it may be just a lump of organic matter, but to me, it is a cosmic language. I mixed Stocks, symbolizing eternal beauty, and purple Lavender, resembling your quiet loneliness. It is a bundle of flower languages prepared solely for the star that is you—neither a scream of chlorophyll nor photosynthetic efficiency.

The automatic door opens, and your familiar, yet still cool figure comes into view. Standing against the dizziness of weightlessness, I choose the most affectionate and brazen greeting to offer you.