5.1
By the time Vikram finally pushed himself away from his workstation, the exhaustion had settled into his bones like a slow creeping fog. Hours of staring at simulations, recalculating trajectories, and arguing quietly with stubborn pieces of data had drained whatever energy he had walked into NASA with that morning. His stomach reminded him that it had been far too long since he had eaten anything meaningful, so without thinking too much about it he wandered down the corridor toward the cafeteria, hoping to grab something quick before heading back to his desk. The fluorescent lights hummed softly above him as he walked, his footsteps echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet hallway, the kind of quiet that usually only existed in large buildings during strange hours when most people had either not arrived yet or had already gone home.
When Vikram pushed open the cafeteria door, he stepped into a space that looked strangely frozen in time. The room was completely empty. No voices, no clattering trays, no smell of fresh food drifting from the kitchen. Just silence. It took him a few seconds to realize what was wrong. It was simply too late in the day for the cafeteria to still be operating. The workers had already cleaned up and left, the counters wiped spotless and the cooking stations dark. Vikram stood there for a moment, blinking slowly as the realization settled in. He had come all this way hoping for food, and now the place looked like a hospital waiting room after visiting hours—clean, sterile, and lifeless.
With a quiet sigh he walked over to the vending machines that stood against the far wall, their bright glass panels glowing like small artificial suns in the otherwise pale room. Rows of colorful drinks stared back at him, sugary sodas and energy drinks promising quick bursts of flavor and caffeine, but Vikram barely gave them any thought. He pressed the button for a Dr Pepper, the can dropping into the tray with a hollow metallic thud that echoed louder than it should have in such an empty space. Somehow he managed to ignore every other drink that looked more tempting and simply grabbed the soda, as if the act of choosing something simple required less effort from his already tired brain.
He carried the can to one of the cafeteria tables and sat down slowly. The place was almost aggressively white. White walls, white tables, white chairs, everything reflecting the harsh overhead lights in a way that made the room feel even more sterile than it already was. For a moment Vikram simply sat there in the middle of all that brightness, loosening his posture the way a man does when he finally allows himself to stop pretending he still has energy left. He untucked the edges of his shirt, loosened the yellowish-brown checked tie hanging around his neck, and slipped off his glasses before placing them carefully on the table. Without them, the room softened slightly into a blur. He pressed both palms against his eyes, rubbing them gently as if he could squeeze a little strength back into himself through sheer stubbornness.
After a few seconds he lowered his hands, blinked slowly—once, twice, three times, four—and then finally popped open the soda can. The sharp psssht of escaping carbonation sounded almost dramatic in the quiet room. Vikram took a long sip and leaned back in the chair, letting the cold sweetness settle in his throat while the silence wrapped itself around him again. Outside somewhere in the distance there were faint sounds of life continuing without him—trucks honking far away, staff voices echoing through other corridors, a burst of laughter from people who were clearly having a much better evening than he was—but inside the cafeteria the loudest sound was simply the ticking of the clock mounted high on the wall.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Vikram found himself nodding slightly with each passing second as he drank, as if the rhythm of the clock had quietly taken control of the room. At some point his eyes drifted to the back of the soda can and he began reading the nutritional information printed there in small black letters, the way tired people sometimes read meaningless things simply because their brain needs something to stare at. When he saw the sugar content he raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Hmmm… not bad," he muttered under his breath.
Then he noticed the calorie count and let out a small defeated sigh.
Nothing beats rasam, he thought.
The memory appeared suddenly and vividly in his mind—the warm, tangy smell of the thin South Indian soup his mother used to make, poured over rice at the start of every meal, sometimes drunk straight from a cup on cold days when the spices warmed your entire body. Lakshmi's rasam had always tasted perfect in a way that no restaurant, no packaged food, no vending machine drink could ever replicate. For a moment the sterile cafeteria faded away and he was back in a small kitchen thousands of miles from Houston, watching his mother move around the stove with quiet efficiency.
The thought made his chest tighten.
Because Vikram Nair was a scientist, a man trained to trust numbers, logic, and the brutal honesty of medical data. Working at NASA meant living in a world where problems were solved with equations, simulations, and cold hard evidence. He understood the biology of cancer better than most people, understood exactly how merciless the disease could be once it spread far enough. Every article he had read, every statistic he had studied, every conversation he had overheard between doctors all pointed to the same grim truth.
There was no miracle cure waiting around the corner.
And yet, sitting there alone in that white cafeteria with a soda can in his hand, Vikram still allowed himself to imagine the impossible. Because when the person suffering was someone you loved, logic had a strange habit of becoming useless. It didn't matter if you were an A-grade student or an F-grade student, a brilliant NASA scientist or a man who barely passed school.
Hope didn't follow the rules of intelligence. Hope simply existed.
After a few more minutes of sitting there in the silent cafeteria, Vikram began tapping his right foot lightly against the floor, the small restless movement breaking the rhythm of the ticking clock that had been echoing in his ears. The soda can in his hand was already half empty, and the brief moment of stillness he had allowed himself was slowly fading. Finally he pushed himself up from the chair with a long, tired sigh, the kind that comes from somewhere deeper than the lungs, as if he had just set down something heavy that had been hanging across his shoulders all day. And in a way, he had. The weight of numbers, predictions, distant objects drifting through space, and the quiet worry that lived somewhere in the back of his mind about his mother's condition—it all sat inside him like an invisible backpack that never really came off.
He walked back through the corridor toward his desk, his footsteps slow but steady now that the short break had shaken some of the fog from his mind. When he reached his workstation he began packing up his things in the familiar, almost ritualistic way he always did at the end of a long day. The brown leather sling bag that had followed him across continents rested on the edge of the desk, its worn corners and faded stitching carrying the quiet history of years spent carrying books and notes from one place to another. Vikram opened the bag and began gathering the items scattered across his desk—the research books he had been studying earlier, the scientific calculator that had been sitting beside his keyboard, and a few loose pages of notes that he folded carefully before sliding them inside. Each movement was slow and methodical, the kind of routine that didn't require much thought.
When he finished collecting the papers he noticed the empty coffee cup that had been sitting there since morning. He picked it up and casually dropped it into the trash bin beneath the desk, the plastic lid rattling slightly as it landed inside.
Just as he straightened up again, he suddenly felt two hands land firmly on his shoulders.
Before he could even turn around, those hands began kneading into the muscles of his traps with surprising enthusiasm.
"Jesus, man," a familiar voice said behind him, half laughing, half scolding. "You look like you've been wrestling with the entire solar system today."
Vikram didn't even need to look to know who it was.
Kevin Brooks.
Kevin had been one of the first people Vikram had grown comfortable around after joining NASA, the kind of easygoing American who seemed capable of turning even the most stressful day into something slightly more bearable. Their friendship had formed naturally over long hours in the same department, small jokes exchanged between data analyses, and the quiet understanding that came from two people who spent most of their lives staring at stars through computer screens.
Vikram rubbed the back of his neck and let out a small chuckle.
"It certainly feels like it," he admitted.
Kevin continued squeezing his shoulders for a moment before leaning casually against the desk.
"Good," he said. "Because you need a break. We're heading out."
"Heading out?" Vikram asked, glancing at him with mild confusion.
"Yeah," Kevin replied. "Drinks. Andrew Collins' birthday tonight."
He lowered his voice slightly and added with a crooked grin,
"And technically also his newly-divorced freedom party."
Vikram raised an eyebrow.
Kevin shrugged.
"You know Collins. Apparently the divorce happened because he was sleeping with some college student. Or at least that's the rumor floating around the department."
He paused for a second, then laughed.
"Honestly, with Collins it could go either way."
Vikram shook his head lightly, slipping the strap of the leather bag over his shoulder.
"I don't drink, Kevin," he said calmly. "And I should probably go home. My mother—"
Kevin waved his hand dismissively before he could finish.
"Relax, relax," he said. "Nobody's forcing alcohol down your throat. Just come hang out for a bit. Have a soda. Talk nonsense with us like a normal human being for once."
Vikram hesitated.
The idea of a crowded bar filled with loud conversations and alcohol didn't exactly sound appealing, especially after the mentally exhausting day he had just endured. But Kevin was still standing there watching him with that familiar hopeful grin, clearly unwilling to accept a quick refusal.
"It's close to your place anyway," Kevin continued, sensing the hesitation. "Clear Lake. Ten minutes away. You can show up, say happy birthday to Collins, sit around for fifteen minutes, and then disappear before anyone even notices."
Vikram considered it for a moment.
Fifteen minutes.
That didn't sound too terrible.
And more importantly, he didn't want to come across as the antisocial scientist who never joined the team for anything outside work.
Finally he sighed quietly.
"Alright," he said.
Kevin's grin widened instantly.
"See? That wasn't so hard."