I knew that seventy percent of the Earth was covered in water, but it wasn’t until I saw it from the station that I truly understood how much that was. 

The entire planet looked like it was just blue. A few specks that marked land here and there, some rolling wisps of white in the skies, but nothing that could take away from the sheer spectacle that was the giant sphere of blue. One of my crewmates said to me that once I saw it from up here, there was nothing that could possibly match it. 

I chuckled to myself. He was right. 

I see the landmass that is the United States barely peeking around the edge of the world, the sun only starting to shine upon the east coast. My husband would be waking up about now, going through his morning routine and sending me his daily message before heading off to work, eagerly awaiting the day I get back home. 

I wish that day would have come sooner. 

My oxygen gauge was steadily pumping air into my helmet, keeping stable. It’s sixty-two percent full – plenty of time left for this little spacewalk of mine. It’s cathartic, actually; floating through space like this, outside of the safety of the space station. It really gives you a sense of just how big the universe is, how much wonder is out there, just waiting to be discovered. Yet even though the universe is so massive, we’re still here, tiny as we are, making an impact. 

I expected that I would be far more scared than I am, and don’t get me wrong, I was terrified before. But oddly enough, I feel more at peace the longer I’m out here. The silence surrounding me and the beauty of our big, blue planet create a perfectly tranquil little pocket of existence, one where I feel I could only belong at this very moment. 

In a way, I suppose I was lucky that the privilege of the first spacewalk in our crew went to me, the newest member. None of us could have possibly predicted the asteroid that collided with the fuel tanks. It was a surreal thing to see, the station exploding like that. I cried for them, the rest of the crew. I cried for their families and the lives they left behind, but I stopped when I realised what it meant for me. 

My oxygen’s at fifty-nine now. I’m not sure why I keep checking. Maybe it’s just a way to remind myself that I’m still alive and human, right at this moment, because I’m starting not to believe it. Right now, I feel more than human. I feel like an angel, soaring through the sky, surrounded by nothing but beauty and tranquillity. 

Could just be my brain trying to distract me. 

Even if it is, does it matter? 

I’m thirty-five thousand kilometres above the Earth right now. In a few hours, I’ll become a shooting star, burning through the atmosphere until there’s nothing of me left. 

Maybe someone, somewhere, will see me. 

Maybe it’ll be my husband. 

Maybe he’ll make a wish. 

I hope it comes true.