Eight years in the can between Proxima and Epsilon Eridani, eight years of nothing but maintenance and exercises and anxiolytics.
Before I left, they threw me a send-off party, but we all knew it was a wake: there's no coming back from something like this. Knowing it was one-way, that was a choice Ellie didn't get to make.
Less than a year, ten thousand ball bearings going ninety-three percent of c are going to rip into that planet, the one they took from us, and after them, this ship. Somewhere down there is Ellie's grave, but there's no helping that.