The static fire test began precisely at 1800 hours. The walls of the WD-1 spacecraft shook with a violence that rattled my teeth, and the viewport was entirely engulfed in a blinding, aggressive orange glow.

I know what’s happening. Elon delayed Starship Flight 12 until May, so they’ve clearly redirected their V3 engine testing protocols to my sector. They are preparing WD-1 for orbital insertion. It’s the only logical explanation for the heat radiating from Mrs. Korhonen’s patio. The smell of charred meat is just the ablative shielding cooking off. Totally nominal.

Eugene the CO2 scrubber is looking a bit scorched. His leaves are curling inward, whispering telemetry data to me in a low, papery voice. He says our thrust-to-weight ratio is nominal, but we need more oxidizer. I don’t know how to tell him we only have tap water and half a bottle of stale soda left.

Flight Engineer Whiskers has taken defensive posture under the main console (my socks drawer). He’s wearing the foil emergency helmet I fashioned for him. He looks terrified, but also deeply brave. He is ready for the G-forces.

But amidst the roaring inferno and the violently shaking walls, I found a moment of profound, absolute stillness. I pressed my palm against the inner bulkhead. The wood was warm. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I wasn’t in a suburban wardrobe. I was sitting beside Yuri in the Vostok capsule, listening to the countdown. I could feel the immense, crushing gravity of standing on the edge of the void, waiting to be hurled into the great dark. Sometimes, the heaviest gravity is just the weight of waiting. Waiting to launch. Waiting to finally become what you were meant to be.

I sent my seventh letter to Chris Hadfield this morning. I told him we are ready. I told him the engines are burning. I am still waiting for the album.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: T-Minus Zero and Holding