Page 117 of Pets in Space 10

The lift doors slide open onto the seventh floor, and the air hits me like a brick to the face, thick with the static buzz of contained panic and hushed commiseration.

Heads turn as I limp down the corridor, my knee brace a stark announcement of my already compromised state.

I see it in their eyes: the pity, the awkward uncertainty, the frantic calculation of ’better her than me. ’

Yesterday, I was their colleague, their counselor.

Today, I am a cautionary tale, Exhibit A in the gallery of the redundant.

“Keep your head high,” Raimei mutters from the depths of my bag. “Or you might as well paint a target on your back. Or perhaps a sign: ‘Will offer coping mechanisms for food.’”

“Quiet, you,” I hiss under my breath, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The conference room door is ahead. One last session, then the packing. The finality of it settles like dust in my lungs.

The Kojiki team sits around the familiar conference table, their faces mirroring the anxiety I see in the hallways, but amplified by the unique pressures of their mission.

Dr. Ito, usually so stoic, looks drawn. Young Dr. Aris Thorne fidgets, avoiding eye contact.

They know this is my last day. The official email hasn’t just gone to me.

“Okay,” I begin, forcing my therapist voice into its usual calm cadence, pushing aside the tremor in my own hands. “Let’s talk about managing transitions.” Oh, the irony.

They stare at me, their expressions ranging from worried to borderline mutinous.

“How are we supposed to manage anything without you?” Aris bursts out, voicing the tension simmering beneath the surface. “We’re heading into simulated deep isolation next month, and they pull our main support? It’s insane.”

“Aris is right,” adds Lena West, the mission’s geologist, her usual pragmatic demeanor softened with concern. “Remember when Dr. Ito and I were barely speaking after the simulation failure? You helped us find a way to communicate, Rosa. Without that, this team wouldn’t function.”

Another team member, the quiet xenobotanist, nods vigorously.

“And the breathing exercises you taught us? I use them every night. They’re the only reason I can sleep sometimes, thinking about…

well, everything.” He looks down at the table.

“The pressure, the unknowns... you helped make it feel manageable.”

Dr. Ito clears his throat. “Your ability to cut through the interpersonal friction and address the underlying anxieties has been invaluable, Ms. Kimura. You helped us maintain focus when the stress was unbelievably high. Your sessions on conflict resolution were particularly effective after the resource allocation disagreements.” He pauses, his gaze direct.

“Losing that perspective now is shortsighted.”

Their words are an unexpected warmth, small sparks against the chilling finality of the layoff notice. Invaluable. Helped us communicate. Maintained focus. Made it manageable. They see the value, even if the executives don’t.

It doesn’t change the reality of the situation, the box waiting in my office, but it’s something.

A quiet affirmation that the work mattered.

That I mattered to them. A tiny ember of pride glows amidst the wreckage.

It’s a bittersweet validation, hearing their praise just as I’m being shown the door.

“Thank you, all,” I say, looking around the table and trying to hold back the tears.

I clear my throat. “The Agency provides other resources. And the techniques we’ve worked on?

Those are yours to keep. Resilience isn’t about having constant external support; it’s about building internal strength.

It’s about acknowledging the fear and the uncertainty and choosing how you respond to it. Because it will be there.”

I look around the table, meeting each of their eyes. These brilliant, dedicated people, preparing to leave everything behind for a tiny speck light-years away. They face the unknown every day. And now, so do I.

“Fear and pain, they aren’t endpoints,” I continue.

The words are personal, advice I need to hear myself.

“They’re catalysts. They force adaptation.

They can lead to change, to growth, but only if you embrace the challenge instead of letting it paralyze you.

You are pioneers. You know how to face the void. Trust that.”

The words hang in the air, echoing my own hypocrisy. Fear and pain. Rhys inflicted pain when he disappeared, leaving a scar of doubt I still carry. And I inflicted pain yesterday, lashing out, accusing him, running away when faced with my fear and the weight of his past actions.

Catalysts. Could this messy, complicated situation be one? Could the hurt we’ve both caused and experienced force adaptation? Force us to confront our own patterns? His avoidance, my defensiveness, our shared tendency to bolt when things get tough?

Embracing the challenge means not running.

Not him selling the studio as an escape route, not me slamming doors and building walls.

It means facing the void between us, the uncertainty, the raw vulnerability of trying to build trust where it was shattered.

It means trusting that maybe growth is possible on the other side of this wreckage, that adaptation can lead to something stronger, more honest.

It’s terrifying advice to give, even harder to take, especially when the void feels so personal, so fraught with the potential for more pain. But paralysis, letting fear dictate the outcome, that’s a different ending, one I choose myself.

“Are you all right, Ms. Kimura?” Aris asks, and I shake myself out of my thoughts. I had been staring into space for the last few moments.

I nod. “I’m fine.” I inhale and force a smile. “Let’s get back to work.”

We spend the next hour working through specific anxieties, reinforcing coping strategies, finding small pockets of control amidst the overwhelming uncertainty of their future mission.

I give them everything I have left, pouring my professional energy into this last session, needing to believe my work here matters, even as the institution itself discards it.

Because this is the stuff that matters.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Dr. Ito says as they file out. “Your advice has been invaluable.”

“Take care of yourselves,” I reply, managing a small smile. “And each other.”

The door clicks shut, leaving me alone in the silence. The adrenaline drains away, and a profound emptiness remains. Invaluable, yet non-core. Right.

Back in my office, the task I’ve been dreading awaits. Packing. Erasing my presence from this small corner of the Interstellar Agency. Raimei hops out of the bag and onto my couch, surveying the scene with a critical eye.

“Well, this is depressing,” he announces. “Like watching someone dismantle their own sandcastle before the tide comes in.”

I grab the box someone left just inside the door for me. Where to even start? The potted plants I managed to keep alive? The worn copy of ‘Existential Psychotherapy’ I keep handy? The small, framed photo of my soccer team, grinning after a championship win, a lifetime ago, it seems.

My fingers trace the smiling faces in the photo. So much has changed. I press the photo to my chest and wish I could return to the time before I injured myself, but I know that’s impossible. Just like I can’t go back and not be fired.

I wrap it in tissue paper and place it in the box. Next comes the quirky mug Kenji had given me that reads ‘I’m listening (but also judging.)’ Then the little potted succulent that has somehow survived my sporadic watering habits. Each item is like shedding a layer of skin.

“Are you going to take the ergonomic chair?” Raimei asks, sniffing at its mesh back. “It smells of desperation and lukewarm tea.”

“I don’t think it fits in the bag, buddy.”

“Shame. It would make an excellent chew toy. A symbolic victory over corporate indifference.”

I chuckle despite myself, the sound rough. I wipe my personal files from my computer and gather the last few stray pens and datapads. The office looks stark now, anonymous. Just another sterile room waiting for its next occupant.

Box in hand, I take one last look around.

Goodbye, seventh floor.

Goodbye, Kojiki team.

Goodbye, career I thought I’d have.

Walking out of the I.A. building is surreal.

The late afternoon sun hits my face and blinds me for a second.

The sounds of Yamato street life — the rumble of transports, distant chatter, the cry of a street vendor — rush in, overwhelming after the hushed tension inside.

I stand on the top step, the box heavy in my arms and my knee aching.

Uncertainty stretches before me like an uncharted galaxy. Jobless. Injured. My family life is a tangled mess. My potential relationship with Rhys is heading for the rocks. It’s enough to make anyone want to curl up and disappear.

But the anger that fueled my outburst in the meeting, the frustration over Demi’s betrayal, the quiet resolve I found standing in Rhys’s studio — it hasn’t vanished. It simmers beneath the surface, a low, stubborn fire.

They decide I’m non-core? Fine. Demi decides I need protection? Fine. Rhys considers running? Fine.

Their choices. Not mine.

I shift the box’s weight, take a deep breath, and fill my lungs with the city’s unfiltered air, and limp down the steps. I don’t know what my next move is. I don’t know where I am going.

But I’ll figure it out for myself.