I thought I could make it. I really thought I could make it. Cold void stretched outwards for miles, stars winking like eyes, staring through my soul. Temperature held steady at 22 degrees Celsius. The thrusters sputtered and died. Craft speed stopped decreasing. The pale blue dot of Earth held still on the targeting screen. There was nothing left to do but wait for death in this metal coffin. In 48 hours, I would be incinerated in the screaming fires of reentry. I really thought I could make it.

A micrometeorite bombardment had pummeled the capsule. All communication equipment had been damaged beyond repair. Engine efficiency dropped by 4%. Navigational computers were nonfunctional. In my panic, I had attempted to manually pilot the ship. I had no other choice, right? I calculated the trajectory over and over, absolutely sure I could make it. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I was traveling too fast. There was no way the capsule could survive reentry. I would die in this box. And I was so sure I could make it.

A pang of hunger gripped my empty stomach.Hunger pangs gripped me. I told myself it was the least of my worries, but it did nothing to alleviate the fear. Food, water, air, none of it mattered now. My mind raced. What could I do? Were the stars blinking differently? I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. The computer beeped almost timidly, warning me of my elevated heart rate. I ignored it. It didn’t matter. A small globule of clear liquid floated by me. A single tear. In the back of my mind, I thought about catching it, in order to protect the instrumentation. Instead, I looked away, unwilling to acknowledge it. Who cared if the electronics broke? It wouldn’t make anything any worse. I closed my eyes and curled into the fetal position, floating alone in the center of the capsule. I really thought I could make it.

I thought about my life back on Earth. Had I even lived? I was so sure I was going to make history:; be the first to walk the moon. In a sense, I was. But I didn’t care about that. I had no friends, no partner, no kids, and no life. I made no attempt to foster kinship with anybody, even my closest colleagues. I was single-mindedly focused on my goal of becoming an astronaut. My physical and mental training, engineering, piloting, coding– all was done alone. I struggled, silently and solitarily, reaching for a goal that I did not know would kill me. Almost like a cruel reflection of my situation now. I had told myself, when I finally make it, I can settle. I could turn my attention elsewhere, and finally find companionship. Now, there was nothing left. Nobody would truly remember who I was, not even my own mother. I was nothing but an astronaut. Nobody knew me as anything else, and nobody would get the chance to know me. All I would be remembered as was a cold, unfeeling man, who thought he could make it.

The capsule was unbearably quiet. I almost wanted the rattle of reentry, just to distract myself. The pale blue dot in front of me had almost doubled in size. I estimated around 24 hours left before I would die. The capsule would enter the atmosphere at 7 miles per second, rapidly slowing and compressing the air in front of it to boiling temperatures. The epoxy in the heat shield would melt, sloughing off to dissipate heat. I would die here. I had a personal parachute, but that would not save me. The capsule would boil me. There was no way out. Decades of engineering had created a perfect vehicle, capable of withstanding thousands of degrees, intense g-forces, and total vacuum. Now, it would be my tomb. The scientists had thought their creation could withstand any challenge space could provide, and I really thought I could make it.

Earth loomed before me. My time was running out. My notepad lay in front of me, filled with notes regarding my journey, from liftoff until now. I picked up my pen and began to write my last message.

“To those on the ground: I am sorry. In a few hours, I will be dead. Do not remember me, as I have made myself nothing more than my job. I have no interests, no life, and no personality. In a way, I am already dead. I thought I could build a life when my goal was complete, but I have missed my chance. In truth, I doubt I would have ever been able to lead a normal life after this. The years of dedication have changed me. To my family, I am sorry I never visited you. To my former classmates, I am sorry I never engaged with you. To my colleagues, I am sorry I pushed you away. All I want now is a simple conversation. A comment on the weather, a complaint about work, a study session, a birthday, anything. These things are impossible now. I am alone, and have always been. I wish I had engaged in those frivolous things. I wish I had enjoyed life. I wish this wasn’t my last message. I really thought I could make it. Goodbye.”

The capsule streaked through the atmosphere, fire streaming from its sides. Materiel melted away from the heat shield, leaving nothing but a copper skeleton. The flames eventually died down, the heat shield was jettisoned, and two small parachutes deployed. The capsule continued towards the sea. The small chutes were automatically disconnected, and three large parachutes opened up, slowing the craft down to its final velocity. A ring of inflatable rubber popped out from its hidden compartment, and the capsule splashed down into the Atlantic Ocean, bobbing in the rough water. Hours later, a barge approached the diminutive craft, attached it to a crane, and hauled it from the waves. Workers crowded around the scorched metal hatch, and pried it open. Onboard instruments were destroyed, frozen solder leaking from the seams like a creeping rot. The pilot laid slumped in his restraints, his desiccated fingers clutching a burnt notebook with only a few words remaining legible. He would be remembered by a jet black tombstone where he had last lived on Earth. From his destroyed notebook, his last words would be recovered and engraved on his memorial with cruel irony: “I thought I could make it.”