Something Worth Keeping

Posted on Mon Mar 31st, 2025 @ 10:25pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel

745 words; about a 4 minute read

Personal Log – Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist, USS Fenrir

Today was supposed to be routine. An ordinary shuttle run, nothing more than procedural necessity—one more thing to cross off the endless mental checklist I've maintained since reporting aboard the Fenrir. Simple retrieval, cargo checks, authorizations, and security protocols. Precise, predictable, exactly as intended. That’s how I usually prefer things—neat, structured, and without surprises.

And yet, today wasn't what I expected. It caught me off guard, and I’m still processing why. Usually, I avoid getting too invested in people or situations that aren't directly tied to my research. It's easier that way. Safer. But today wasn't typical, and neither was my pilot.

Oliver Sylver was different from the officers I’m used to—former Marine turned shuttle pilot, someone who seemed to have found peace in the cockpit rather than chasing prestige or rank. His movements were precise but unhurried, each action deliberate, confident without being arrogant. It was the kind of efficiency I admire; quiet competence that doesn't demand attention but earns it anyway.

His kindness was unexpected. He offered me chocolate, real chocolate—not the replicated, flavorless approximation I've grown accustomed to. That taste alone was enough to momentarily derail my disciplined thoughts. It felt strangely personal, genuine, a gesture without an agenda. Then came the stroopwafel—fresh, handmade, and infused with the kind of authenticity I hadn't realized I was craving. For a rare moment, I let myself savor it, letting down the carefully constructed barriers I always maintain. It felt dangerously good, slipping into comfort so easily that I almost forgot where I was.

Our conversation drifted toward memories, anchoring comforts carried from home into deep space. I understood the sentiment, but couldn’t fully relate—not exactly. Home has never been something physical for me, not something I can hold or store away for later. Home is Renata's voice echoing through our tiny Buenos Aires apartment, sharp with humor, softening only when no one else is listening. Home is Benji blasting outdated music at all hours, so insistent and loud that it fills spaces even when he’s not there.

It’s the citrus scent of shampoo, vanilla candles, the distant hum of the ceiling fan turning in lazy circles during nights too warm to sleep. It’s the taste of cardamom and ginger in tea brewed for comfort, the shared experience of salty popcorn during movies watched without judgment. None of these things can be stored or replicated—they live in moments, fleeting and intangible.

Oliver understood that, I think. He talked about the unpredictability of memories, how a scent or a sound could transport someone to another place, another time, without permission or warning. He made it sound so simple, but for me, those sudden returns to the past are complicated. They pull me out of my structure, my careful control, leaving me momentarily adrift in sensations I can't quantify or analyze. It's both unsettling and profoundly human—something I rarely let myself acknowledge.

As we ascended, the view shifted to the Fenrir, sleek and luminous against the darkness. It's strange, seeing the ship from a distance and feeling something close to relief. I never expected to think of this assignment as anything more than a last chance, a calculated step toward what I really wanted. Yet, seeing the Fenrir waiting for us, I felt something unexpected—gratitude. Stability. Even a quiet, hesitant sense of belonging.

I don't often allow myself the luxury of sentimentality. My work has always been my anchor, my purpose, my shield against everything complicated and emotional. But Oliver made me think differently today, reminding me that not everything valuable can be preserved or dissected. Some experiences exist only in their moment, powerful precisely because they're temporary.

Today taught me something about connection, too—how small gestures of kindness, authenticity, or understanding can make a difference. Oliver's insights, casual and unforced, made me feel less isolated, less like I’m navigating all this alone. And for a moment, that was enough. More than enough.

Now, as I sit here reflecting, I realize this personal log is longer and more introspective than I intended. It feels slightly uncomfortable, admitting these things even to myself, but it's honest. And maybe that's progress. Perhaps recognizing moments of unexpected connection or authenticity isn't a weakness—it's simply part of being human.

Computer, end log.

 

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