Space Man

Talk to Me Shishwammy

The silence stretched between us, heavy and almost suffocating. He was usually more open, or at least willing to deflect with humor, but this time felt different. When he finally took the helmet from the worktable and placed it on the armor stand, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease as I watched him meticulously arrange it alongside the rest of his dismantled suits.

“Did something happen to your suit?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. I saw the faint twitch of the gills on the helmet he wore, like they were turning toward me, listening. But he didn’t answer. That small movement was the only acknowledgment I got, and it stung.

“Shishwammy,” I pressed, my tone softer but carrying more weight. “Please talk to me. I’m worried about you.” My chest tightened with each word. This wasn’t like him. The silence, the avoidance—it wasn’t the Xisuma I knew. The one who could find humor in almost anything, who’d offer quiet reassurance even when things were hard.

He hesitated, and I caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed slightly before resting on the edge of the worktable. “The air seals broke on this one,” he finally said, his voice quiet, almost like a whisper. “Kind of.”

I frowned, my worry deepening. “Kind of?” I echoed. “That doesn’t sound like something minor.”

He let out a low sigh, tilting his helmeted head slightly as if he were weighing whether to say more. “It was a mistake,” he muttered, the words clipped and reluctant. “I didn’t catch it in time. I… I overestimated how much air I had left.”

The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. “You passed out,” I said, more a statement than a question. I could feel the frustration bubbling beneath my worry, not at him, but at the situation—at how he’d let himself get to this point without asking for help.

His silence was answer enough.

“Xisuma, you could have—” I stopped myself, clenching my fists before forcing them to relax. I didn’t want to lash out, not when he was already this closed off. “You scared me,” I admitted instead, my voice softer. “Do you know how terrifying it is to think about what could’ve happened if no one found you?”

He flinched slightly at my words, his helmet dipping as if he was trying to shrink into himself. “It’s not the first time,” he said after a moment, his voice barely audible. “I thought I could handle it.”

That broke something in me. “You shouldn’t have to handle it alone,” I said, stepping closer but still keeping some space between us. “Whatever’s going on—whether it’s about the suit or something else—you don’t have to do this by yourself. You’ve got me, shishwammy. I’m here.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His head remained bowed, and I wasn’t sure if my words had gotten through. But then, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing the edge of the helmet on the worktable as if grounding himself.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell me he was listening, that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to let me in.

“And I know it’s not just about the air seals or the suit,” I said gently, but with a firmness I hoped he’d hear. “You were stressed before that. What’s going on? What is going on?” I didn’t like pressing him—pushing wasn’t my style—but something told me he needed it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“You don’t have to worry about it. It’s nothing, I swear,” he replied quickly, but the way his shoulders stiffened at the suggestion gave him away.

I let out a slow breath, carefully choosing my words. “You’re keeping everyone at arm’s length, Shishwammy. It’s not healthy. Over the span of a month, you’ve become more guarded. I’m worried. Everyone is worried.”