Binary Systems [Complete, Slice-of-Life Sci-Fi Romance]

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Karen: Dawn's always been a hopeful time for me. Start fresh, do better, you know?

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December 2nd, 2090, about 5:45 am MST, Montana City

The next day, Gordon was up before the sun.

Karen had slept restlessly—unlike the previous two nights—and he wasn't used to sharing a bed with someone who thrashed. After an hour of trying not to disturb her, he gave up and slid quietly out of bed.

He didn't want to make noise. There was plenty he could do on his portable—read a book, play a game, watch a movie. The future made solitude easy. But instead, he stepped outside and just sat.

The sunrise was already beginning.

Purple clouds. Copper-tinted edges. Razor traces of pink and broad swaths of orange, layered over a golden wash that made the blue of the sky seem almost green.

No one ever talks about green skies. It sounds absurd—something a child might claim. But it was right there, if you looked. If yellow and blue meet, how could green not appear?

He thought about Mars.

In a few hours, Marie might see a Martian sunrise—if she went topside. Which she probably wouldn't. Martian dawns moved from blue to red, but they must pass through yellow and green too. Unless the atmosphere took a different path—blue to violet to red. He realized he didn't know. He hadn't been paying attention.

He hoped one day he could go there and find out. Watch another Martian sunrise play over Marie's skin.

Then he paused.

Was that hope really that foolish?

Claire had made herself clear. She was going to be just as immovable as their father, at least on this. There was nothing for it. Earth, then.

At least he wouldn't have to disappoint Karen.

But then, the whole "Marie or Karen" thing—it felt like a false dichotomy. After all he'd put them through, maybe the kindest thing would be to step out of the equation entirely.

He imagined life alone. Not the lonely detachment of the city, but something quieter. Simpler. Like a lighthouse keeper. A hermit with a signal to tend.

Or maybe he'd go for broke—become an asteroid miner in the Belt.

And just like that, it clicked.

The problem wasn't Karen or Marie.
The problem wasn't Mars or Earth.
It was the frame of the question itself.

'Or.'

Those choices had always been given to him with the assumption that those were the only routes forward—like a fork in the road ahead of him.

But there was a third way.

The Belt.

No family legacy. No colony politics. No step-siblings with veto power. Just open space, hard work, danger, and distance.

A life he could choose. A future he could build. A true frontier without the rails of establishment to hem him in—or keep him safe.

And in that future, if Marie wanted to join him—if she wanted to, if she still would—then no one else could get between them again.

But that meant one thing had to happen first.
Something difficult. Something necessary.

Karen deserved clarity.

He couldn't carry one relationship while chasing another.

So before he could ask Marie to come with him. . . before he even took the steps needed to get to where that was possible.

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He had to say goodbye to Karen.

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Karen was a light sleeper. Gordon knew this. Light sleeper plus early riser plus the inevitable sleepy-hand-reaching-to-see-if-he-was-still-there maneuver—he simply wasn't experienced enough to have seen it coming: But when he returned from his walk, she was already up.

She sat at the edge of the couch, framed by the sunrise through the kitchenette windows—the same windows he usually kept covered to avoid monitor glare. She'd opened them. Maybe to watch him. Maybe just to let the light in. Either way, the thought made him quietly sad.

Her blonde hair was lit red-gold by the dawn. The air conditioner hummed low, casting a current across her face that drew tendrils of hair with it, hiding her mouth and jaw from view from the doorway. When she turned to look at him, he saw tear tracks cutting down her cheeks, sparkling in the light.

"You've made up your mind," she said quietly.

There was only one coffee mug on the counter. Hers—tan with the amount of milk she liked. He crossed the room slowly, took a K-cup from the drawer, and busied himself with the machine—not because he wanted coffee, but because he couldn't look at her.

But coffee didn't save him. He had to speak.

"I did," he said. "I've made a decision."

He paused, then faced her fully.

"I think I've been unfair to you. You've always been. . . my dearest friend. And—"

"You're trying to let me down gently," she interrupted. "Just explain how it is you're doing it."

"I'm going to the Belt."

His heart thudded in his chest.

Her lips moved slightly, silently—like she was tracking calculations behind her eyes. But only for a moment.

"I understand," she said. "This is even worse than breaking up with me."

He winced.

"I hope you know that's what you're doing," she went on. "You're breaking up with me and giving me your terminal prognosis at the same time. Like, 'Hey, Karen, I'm leaving you and also going somewhere even more dangerous and more isolating than the already-shortened future you were scared about.' It's like getting dumped and told your new ex-boyfriend has cancer in one conversation."

"Karen—"

"No. Don't spin it," she said, sharply. "Don't tell me about blood doping or medtech or your workout regimen. I know all of it. I don't want the pitch. If there's good news about longevity in low gravity, I'll look it up on my own."

She stood now, crossing to the sink just to put her hands somewhere.

"I need you to be here with me in this moment," she said. "And I need you not to flinch from how I feel. Because I don't think I deserve that. Not now."

"No," he said. "You don't."

Her eyes shimmered again—but this time, she didn't blink it back.

"I don't regret you," she said. "But holy hell, Gordon. . .I thought I was giving you an exit ramp. A way to stop clinging to something that couldn't work."

She paused. Her voice thinned, the ache just beneath it exposed.

"You weren't supposed to find a way back to her."

"I didn't think I would," Gordon admitted. "I thought—"

He stopped himself. Regrouped.

"But when I realized the Belt meant she could come too. . . I couldn't pretend anymore. I never stopped wanting that future. I shouldn't have led you on."

Karen laughed once, a dry sound with no mirth in it.

"I thought I was stepping in to fill a need. I thought she was off the table. I hoped. . ."

She stepped forward, close enough that he could see the faint bruise still healing near her collarbone, the leftover traces of the night that should've scared him straight.

"But I don't do triangles, Gordon," she said, and her voice was sure now. "You were supposed to make a choice. I won't be the other woman. And I hadn't meant to be."

"No," he said softly. "You're a leading lady. Through and through."

She looked at him for a moment, studying his face, and something in her expression eased—but didn't soften.

"You remember that."

There was no heat in the words. Just quiet insistence.

"And I don't hate you for this," she added. "I told you I want you to find your happiness."

A beat. Then another.

"I hope she's worth it. I hope you two make it. I really do."

She leaned in and kissed him—not passionate, not angry. A final, chaste farewell to a memory.

"Just. . . don't make her feel like she's second choice," Karen murmured. "Even if it took you this long to figure it out. It'd be a shame for us both to feel like that."

Gordon's voice caught in his throat. He swallowed hard.

"You deserved better than this."

Karen gave a faint, bittersweet smile.

"Yeah," she said. "I did."

She stepped back. Let him see the hurt. Let him feel the space open between them.

"But maybe this was still better than not trying."

She picked up her bag, slung it over one shoulder. Her movement was careful; the stiffness in her gait reminded him of how close she'd come to losing so much more than pride.

"Listen. . . It isn't that I hope you have a bad life. But just now—you can go kick rocks."

"I deserve that."

She didn't look at him.

"I'm going to go."

Gordon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His vision blurred. Heat streaked down his cheeks and pattered on his collared shirt.

She didn't wait. She turned and walked away, limping just slightly, her silhouette framed in the glow of early morning light. She didn't look back.

He didn't expect her to.