Every night, at the same hour, I notice how calming your room truly is. The ambient light filters in through your window, leaving a warm amber trail across your bed, as if the tranquil rays of Saturn itself infuse the place where you sleep with cosmic energy.

Tonight, you seem frailer than ever, leaning on my shoulder. You feel as gentle as a feather as I guide you to your slumber. For the first time in my life, you appear helpless in my arms, weakened to a point of no return. I always knew this time would come.

You jest, saying, “The view of Saturn's rings always lulls me to sleep.” But not tonight. Instead of lying down, we talk about the day and laugh at the many games we played.

As in previous nights, I sit here watching you sleep. I study your face with my eyes and become lost... the wrinkles, the unfamiliar mounds on your forehead. I imagine what you used to look like, how swiftly your appearance has changed. You are but a mirage of the man you used to be.

The aging process happened so quickly. At this moment, the complexity of it all dawns on me. However, tonight, sleep eludes you. After I lay you down, you remain lost in thought, gazing out the window. For a moment, you prepare to close your eyes and drift off to dreamland.

Tonight, though, feels different. It seems like you want answers. With a look of worry, you ask, “Why did you do this?”

I didn't expect such concern, considering what I had to do. If it weren't for the moon, there might have been another choice. If it weren't for our isolation, there might have been another choice. If it didn't mean I would be left alone on this crater, then perhaps there could have been another choice.

I reply, “Such a profound question for you to ask.” I gaze out the window, my eyes resting on Saturn, and continue, “I'm not God, though sometimes I feel like I'm playing one.” I look back at you lying on the bed. “Death cannot be determined; I don't know when or how we die.”

The pain in your face is evident. Frustration builds– tears well up. You turn your gaze back to the window and say, “But at least technology is striving to help us make things right.” You look back at me, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Right?”

“Why are you crying?” I ask. These are difficult questions tonight, as you should already be asleep. Although, this may be the last time I put you to bed.

You reply, “Because I've lived two whole lives with you, and the most recent one flew by in an instant.” Tears continue to flow as I wipe them away with my thumb.

I respond, my voice filled with care, “Don't you think this is hard for me too? Watching the man I love so deeply, the man I married, age rapidly before my eyes?”

You bite your lip, searching for the right words to say, aware that the pain lies on both sides. A part of you recognizes that I will have to go through this process repeatedly.

'I don't know if I can do this again,' I say.

You turn your gaze away from the window and reply, “I don't want you to be alone up here.”

I don't know how to respond because I know you're right. Loneliness is a death sentence without others around. I would feel out of place, and madness would take hold. This moon base is too vast for one person.

“If it weren't for your genetic anomaly, the procedure would have worked as planned,” I say.

You sit up in bed, struggling to lift your own weight. Before you can mutter a few words, you cough up blood into your handkerchief.

Looking up at me, you say, “Look, you only have five years left on this base. Don't go through this alone.”

“Well, how many times do you expect me to bring you back? I don't know what will happen next time. What if it's not just this? What if it's something else?”

You turn your gaze back to Saturn, captivated by its beauty. With a sigh, you acknowledge that I am right.

I say, “What is worse: being separated from someone you love or watching them die over and over again?”

I place my hand behind your neck and guide you back into bed, tucking you under the sheets. I settle you back onto your pillow, and you close your eyes, finding comfort in the realm of dreams.

Through the small slits of your eyes, you say, “Do what you will, but know this: Saturn feels truly and yet only beautiful when we both gaze out this window.”