D E S T I N E D

The group moved ever forward, preparing for the mission at hand, Lorn was steel-gazed and Bastila again turned to try and lighten the mood and that was when Bastila realized… it was easier said than done.
The scent struck first. Burnt ozone, blood, med-gel, the acrid tang of scorched flesh. The walls wavered, then knit themselves into the dim-lit medbay she knew she had never stepped inside, yet it welcomed her like a place long remembered.
And there he was.
The man on the cot. Bruised, battered, eyes glazed as though smoke from some distant battle still clung to them. Bastila’s breath hitched. She didn’t know him, not truly; but her chest clenched with the ache of someone who did.
“Are you still here… or am I dreaming again?” His words rasped, fragile, as though every syllable threatened to break him.
“Yes… yes, I’m here,” she whispered. The answer came unbidden, sliding from her tongue as if rehearsed a thousand times. But it wasn’t her voice. Not entirely. It was hers and not hers, an echo pulled through her throat. She stepped closer, trembling fingers reaching for his shoulder. Why was she touching him? Why did she need to?
“Just… stay,” he breathed. “Just for this breath. Let the silence not swallow everything. Say my name again… say it so I know I’m still in your world.”
His name rose in her mouth before thought intervened. “Lysander.” The sound was alien, yet her lips shaped it with aching familiarity. “Lysander, of course you are. Soon, I’ll take your hand and hold it tight because I need you too.”
Her heart lurched. I don’t know you. The thought screamed in her mind, but the words weren’t hers to stop.
“Sibylla.” His lips curved faintly around the name, reverent, fragile as glass.
Bastila’s breath snagged. That wasn’t her name. The sound of it pressed against her like an ill-fitted mask, heavy and suffocating. For a moment she wanted to protest, to correct him; I’m not her. But the medbay shivered, tugging her back into the rhythm.
“My friends thought I was an idiot,” he murmured, “to still believe in us. I didn’t know how to let go. Will you… still stay if I fall asleep?”
“I’ll stay with you even if you don’t fall asleep,” Bastila answered. Her lips shaped the words as though guided, but her chest tightened, awareness flaring: Why am I saying this? Why does my voice sound like hers? She forced the rest out anyway. “Just… try to stay awake. Focus on me. Just my voice.”
“I’m trying…” His tone shredded thin. “But it’s like… I’m losing pieces every time I speak. I don’t know how to hold onto you when I don’t even know what’s real.”
Bastila turned instinctively and saw another figure. Dark hair, eyes sharp and knowing. The name came, uninvited, Aiden. She knew him, but the recognition pulsed like a memory trying to graft itself into her bones. The World Between pulled at her edges, whispering that none of this belonged to her; yet her hand clenched tighter, as if anchoring to both men at once.
“Right…” she breathed, half to Lysander, half to the phantom who wasn’t hers. Gold light bled through the seams of the medbay, and her composure fractured. Tears stung her eyes, sudden and foreign, the grief not her own yet sharp enough to cut.
“This isn’t real…” The words slipped raw, as though her awareness pierced through the memory. Her gaze darted across the shifting room, across the face she ached for without cause. It’s hers. Not mine. But the longing throbbed in her chest all the same.
“You’re not really here,” she whispered, fighting to steady her voice. “You no longer are.”