I grew up on a Mars colony that felt safe but never certain. We had food and air, but everything was counted. Every breath came through machines that could fail. Birthdays were quiet. Even small comforts felt rare.
Life on the colony was very mundane. It didn't take you long to realize that you shouldn't have big dreams. Space was harsh and didn't allow big dreamers to survive.
When I first met Lila, she was at the shuttle bay leaning against the wall with a bag that seemed quite old hanging on her shoulder. She was wearing a cap, and her hair was neatly tucked under it. She looked tiny next to the transport ship, but you could tell by her calm gaze that she was a tough one.
She was a botanist on Earth and then, she was sent to Mars to investigate the soil. I was in charge of the freight between Earth and Mars. Usually, my hands were full of engine oil. I am just a regular guy. However, her smile at that time was so huge that the cold and gloomy walls of the station could hardly still feel her lack.
Lila liked plants as if they were wonders. She thought that even in such a place, there would be life. She allowed me to witness the birth of plants in a glass jar, tiny, delicate, and courageous against the metal-rich ground.
After my runs, I would always find her in the greenhouse. The air felt charged with life. I would see her digging with her hands and imagine, perhaps this is the face of hope.
Once, at dusk, under a blazing red sky, she asked, “Don’t you ever wish to stay here? To stop going away?”
I responded with a sarcastic laugh, “We pilots don’t stay. It’s always a go with us.” She didn’t say anything and just stared at me. “But isn’t it painful to separate all the time so you get used to it?”
I had no answer. It did. But I couldn’t say it out loud.
Time went by. Each leaving was more difficult than the last. Every time she came, it was never enough. When I left, she was there watching my ship depart and when I arrived, I could always find her by the sea. We never used the term "love.” Talking seemed ineffective and too delicate for the place we were in. It was at that time when the disaster struck.
A sandstorm devastated the settlement with the most wind and power clashes than the last few years. The storm, which swallowed the greenhouse, broke the pods. Upon my arrival, Lila was outside, her hands quivering, dust in her hair.
“They’re gone,” she whispered.
I sat next to her. The world was silent except for the settling dust.
“They were just plants,” I said, even though I knew better.
She shook her head. “They were proof. Proof life could happen here. Proof we weren’t only surviving.”
I took her hand. It was cold. And I knew she wasn’t grieving plants she was grieving the future she dared to see.
The next day, orders came from Earth. Funding was cut. The Mars project was shrinking. I was reassigned to Earth. Maybe for good.
I was constantly telling myself that it was not as complicated as it seemed. A long-distance relationship is something that barely exists, it is difficult for it to be on two different planets and at the same time on the same one. However, when I shared my side of the story with her, the expression in her eyes was so intense that it almost broke me down.
"So, is that the end of it?" she asked in a low voice.
"I really don't have a say in the matter," I responded.
She agreed, taking my face as a picture. "Then give me one thing," she said. "What?"
"First of all, remember that it was you and me who started this. Even if no one else cares whether the seedlings never grow again, remember."
I left under the rust-colored sky. Her voice kept replaying in my mind.
Back on Earth, life was loud and green but empty. I flew routes over blue skies, but nothing fit.
Months passed. Then, in a crowded terminal, I saw a news screen: “Martian Agriculture Breakthrough: Surviving Seeds Thrive.”
There she was Lila smiling tired but bright, holding a small sprout.
That night, I sat by my window, city lights glowing like distant stars. I knew then: some distances aren’t meant to stay.
I took leave. Bought a one-way ticket. As the shuttle rose, the stars spread like a map back to her.
When I landed, the colony smelled of dust and metal. I found her in the greenhouse.
She turned as I entered. For a moment, her face was unreadable. Then she smiled, small and trembling.
“You came back,” she said.
“I promised I wouldn’t forget,” I replied.
We stood surrounded by fragile green life that shouldn’t exist on a dead planet. And I knew love was like that too fragile, unlikely, but unstoppable.
Years later, people would talk about science and politics when they spoke of Mars. But I know the truth.
It all started with a duo who had faith. Two minds quirky enough to assume, even when the cosmos command no.
Occasionally, the Martian sun going down setting the sky on fire, I remember the lad who was never dreaming and the woman who taught him how to do it. A few love tales require not a flawless universe. They just need souls that are prepared to cling on even beyond the stars.