Moving Backwards

Chapter Three

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"Okay, okay, I'm up," I think to myself, squinting at the dim morning light filtering through my blinds at five o'clock in the morning. My bed feels like a gravity well, pulling me back down with an irresistible force. "I could just stay here all day" I muse and then I think about my intrusive thoughts lately and decide against it. I don't even remember falling asleep last night, and now I'm caught somewhere between exhaustion and wakefulness, like a star on the verge of collapse. Did I even finish studying, or did the textbooks win the battle? I feel as sluggish as a neutron star slowly rotating, dense, and immovable. I muster up all of the effort my body contains, I swing my legs out of bed and stumble towards my Kuerig, desperate for the only fuel that matters: coffee.

I pour the steaming liquid into my mug, letting the rich aroma curl around me like I imagine dark matter does —present, and powerful, but unseen by most, or at least by humans. The bitter taste jolts me awake, sparking neurons that had been drifting like rogue asteroids in the vastness of my brain. I sip my coffee, thankful I had the sense to drink it before brushing my teeth. Who drinks coffee after that? Anyway, with caffeine now rushing through my veins, I shuffle to the dormitory bathroom, where I brush my teeth and shower. The hot water cascades over me, washing away my sleepiness, washing away my worries, washing away doubts, making me clean if only for a little bit. For this brief, quiet moment, I feel the kind of serenity you might find in the perfect equilibrium of a star—an instant of balance before it goes supernova.

I've always been fascinated by balance, especially in the cosmos. Stars, for instance, maintain their shape through the constant battle between fusion energy pushing outward and gravity pulling inward. Astrophysics, in many ways, is the study of these opposing forces: gravity and expansion, matter and antimatter, chaos and order, letting it all out and stuffing it way, way, waaaay down. It's why I chose to study it, after all. There's something humbling about staring up at the night sky, knowing that those tiny pinpricks of light are distant suns, some smaller than Pluto and some bigger than our imagination can even fathom. Some of which might have planets, some of which might even harbor life. And then there's the mystery of dark energy—the force driving the expansion of the universe. Isn't the universe alright as is, why does it need to keep getting larger, spread thinner, and colder than it already is?

As I get dressed and head out, I think about my favorite topic in astrophysics: black holes. There's nothing quite as enigmatic or terrifying. Imagine a star so massive that when it dies, its core collapses into a point of infinite density, known as a singularity. It creates a region of space where not even light can escape—the event horizon. Black holes are the universe's ultimate secret keepers, swallowing information, matter, and energy, and yet, we know so little about what happens inside them. I believe that they might even hold the key to understanding quantum gravity or better yet they are warp tunnels, pathways to different universes. A proof that we cannot solve at this point but a backing to the multiverse.

Then of course there's antimatter, the focus of my research with Rosalie. It's like the mirror image of matter but with opposite charges. When matter and antimatter meet, they annihilate each other in a burst of energy. It sounds destructive, but that annihilation could power entire starships, allowing us to travel between galaxies. What I find most fascinating is the mystery of why the universe is mostly matter and not equal parts antimatter. The Big Bang should have produced both in equal amounts, yet here we are, made entirely of matter. Where did all the antimatter go?

Rosalie and I have been working on an experiment involving a helmet designed to manipulate anti-matter which in turn produces gamma rays—the highest-energy form of electromagnetic radiation. I managed to contain the gamma rays, keeping them confined in a space around the head with a diameter of just one inch and making sure the density of the field was as low as possible to reduce the possibility of harm but we have still yet to see any negative affects at this point. It's a breakthrough, but what excites me more is the potential application of this technology. Gamma rays are usually destructive, but if we can harness their energy and direct it safely, we could revolutionize space travel, and maybe even create shields or propulsion systems based on electromagnetic fields. I just imagine it people having anti-matter shoes flying to work or even passengers on an airplane all having their force field on- you know just in case. Right now, it's just a theory, but every great discovery starts as one.

As I leave the dorm and step into the sunlight, I feel a renewed sense of purpose unlike the black hole I was feeling like this morning. The universe is vast and filled with wonders we can barely comprehend. Astrophysics is more than just equations and theories—it's about understanding our place in the cosmos and discovering the forces that govern everything from the tiniest particles to the largest galaxies. Every time I look up at the sky, I feel a pull, like the universe is calling me to explore it, to unravel its mysteries one discovery at a time. Oh no.

My dad is calling me. The phone vibrates in my hand, but I just stare at the screen for a few seconds, watching his name flash across it. A mix of dread and indecision knots in my stomach. I know this feeling—it's the one where you wonder if you're about to hear something awful, and you debate whether you'd rather hear it, read it in a message, or not know at all. Maybe if I let it go to voicemail, the bad news can't reach me. But of course, that's not how life works. Ha ha, very funny, Paisley, I think sarcastically. Avoidance never works with him anyway. Besides, you know he's the one who funds your entire life right now. Your stipend, the apartment, everything is because of him. And at this point, the helmet is practically my full-time job. Still, I hesitate one last second before finally deciding to answer the call.

"Hi, Dad. I'm just on my way to class, what's going on?"

His voice is familiar, but it always carries the weight of unpredictability. His mood can change like a switch, flipping from fine to frustrated in an instant. It varies day to day, week to week—sometimes it's just minor complaints, other times it's a full-blown outburst. I never really know what to expect. As I shift the phone from one hand to the other, I bite my fingernails, a nervous habit I've never quite shaken, bracing myself for whatever might come. "Oh, nothing, just calling to see how you're doing," he says. Weird. That's not like him at all. He never calls just to check-in. Usually, it's about a favor. In his mind, I owe him for everything he does for me—every dollar comes with strings attached. That's just how it's always been with him. Conditional love. Quid pro quo. An eye for an eye. My eyes are narrow as suspicion flares. Something's off.

"I'm fine... how are you?" I ask, my voice a little more guarded now.

The pause that follows stretches longer than I expected. I hear him inhale, the crackle of something unspoken in his voice. When he speaks again, his tone is different, fragile in a way I've never heard before. "I have something to tell you," he starts, his voice shaking ever so slightly, "and it's not easy to hear... but I have a brain tumor."

The world stops.