Owen sat slumped in his seat near the window. Outside, the Earth curved far below, wrapped in deep shadows, its poles glowing faintly. The cabin was nearly empty; just six passengers, half-asleep, strapped in. Owen stared into the abyss beyond the glass, haunted by the ghost of a girl he hadn’t seen in years.
His breath slowed. His eyelids grew heavier, pulled down by exhaustion, weightlessness, and memory. His hand, resting over the photo in his coat pocket, twitched slightly.
And then the hum of the engines faded. His fingers loosened on the photograph. And the world blurred into dream.
The leaves outside the MIT bioglass dome had turned copper and crimson. Inside, the interdisciplinary research chamber hummed with voices, algorithms, and blooming lab-grown foliage.
Owen in 2nd year, stood by the digital board, presenting his thesis on gravitational flight pathways and adaptive propulsion under varying atmospheric densities.
“The trajectory optimization assumes a void-like vacuum. But introducing organic material; say, for terraforming; would compromise that stability,” he concluded.
A voice cut in from the back, clear and confident.
“Only if you keep assuming that organic life can’t adapt. Or outperform engineered systems.”
He turned. There she was.
Sarah Williams.
Shoulder-length, dark hair tucked behind her ears, hazel-blue eyes sharp and alive. Her lips curled into a slight smirk; half defiant, half curious. She wore a deep green field jacket stained with soil and chloroplast samples.
“Maybe the vacuum should adapt to life,” she added, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Owen blinked.
“That's not how physics works.”
“Maybe not. But biology breaks rules physics hasn’t even written yet.”
That was their first argument.
It wasn’t their last.
The sun was high over the MIT dome. The bio-dome garden buzzed with life. Flowers, vines, oxygen purifiers; an oasis of green in a tech-dominated world. Inside, students gathered for an interdisciplinary seminar. Owen, nineteen, already one of the top aerospace prodigies, stood at the front of the crowd, arguing with confidence.
“Terraforming won’t be possible until atmospheric regulation stabilizes across interplanetary thresholds,” he said, gesturing to a projected simulation. “No plant life would survive the radiation in its current form.”
A voice from the back cut in, sharp, clear.
“Then maybe you’re looking at plants the wrong way.”
Everyone turned.
It was again Sarah Williams.
“Resilience isn’t about matching the environment,” she continued. “It’s about adapting the organism. You want to colonize Mars? Don’t just build bunkers. Build living systems. Mycorrhizal interfaces, synthetic chloroplasts. It’s not just rocket science; it’s biological strategy.”
Owen stared. She was interrupting his presentation.
“Are you suggesting we send forests into orbit?” he snapped.
“If they work better than your metal ships, then yeah,” she fired back.
The room laughed.
They spent the semester debating constantly, sometimes in class, often in the library, even online forums. She called him “Rocket Boy.” He called her “Tree Whisperer.”
But beneath the sarcasm, something grew.
Then one day in the lecture hall, buzzed with the quiet energy of thirty of MIT’s best minds. Projector lights danced on the smartboard, flickering between slides of photosynthetic schematics, low-gravity material simulations, and bio-adaptive spacecraft designs. The room smelled faintly of coffee, copper, and ambition.
At the front, Professor Rhee, a tall, silver-haired man with smart lenses glinting over his eyes, clapped his hands to draw attention.
“Alright, everyone. Let’s settle. You’ve all proven your theories individually. Now let’s see how well you handle opposing perspectives.”
Murmurs rose.
Owen, seated third row from the front, tapped his stylus rhythmically, eyes on the presentation.
From the far right, Sarah Williams leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath her messy short shoulder level hair and half-buttoned flannel. She looked like someone who didn’t believe in rules; but always mastered them anyway.
Professor Rhee swiped across the air, and a digital pairing list hovered mid-air, projected for all to see.
“You’ll be working in pairs for the upcoming cross-discipline innovation project. One month. Original prototype. No AI assistance. Pure human innovation.”
Eyes flicked toward the floating names.
And then it appeared:
PAIR 5: ANDERSON, OWEN – WILLIAMS, SARAH
Owen blinked.
Sarah sat up straighter.
A beat of silence.
“Nope,” Sarah said under her breath, then louder, “Professor, with all due respect; ”
“Denied,” Professor Rhee interrupted with a knowing smile. “Your specialties are at opposite ends of the scientific spectrum. Exactly what this course was designed for.”
Owen raised a hand slightly.
“I don’t think our methodologies align.”
“They’re not supposed to,” Rhee said, smirking. “That’s the point. Learn to bend. Or break. Either way, discovery lies in discomfort.”
Sarah shot Owen a glare.
“Great. Now I get to babysit the orbit-obsessed perfectionist.”
Owen gave her a flat look.
“Fantastic. I’ve always wanted to work with a plant psychic.”
Professor Rhee chuckled from the podium.
“Due in four weeks. You'll present together. If one fails, both fail. Welcome to collaboration.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence passed between them.
Owen went to her desk, gazing deep into her beautiful eyes.
“So,” Owen said, standing with a sigh. “Shall we set a schedule?”
Sarah slid her satchel over her shoulder, stepping beside him.
“Just don’t expect me to be impressed by your propulsion diagrams.”
“And don’t expect your pet moss to solve climate control in zero-G.”
She paused, then grinned; just slightly.
“This is going to be fun.”
“It’s going to be a disaster.”
“Same thing.”
They stared at each other; cold but curious. Neither willing to back down. Both secretly thrilled.
Behind them, the classroom had erupted into low murmurs.
“Ten credits say they kill each other before the prototype’s halfway done,” one student whispered, smirking.
“Nah,” another replied, leaning forward. “You’re looking at the best minds from two opposite disciplines. Aerospace and biogenetics? This could either end in blood… or history.”
A third student laughed quietly. “I just want to see what happens when fire meets chlorophyll.”
Professor Rhee, still by the board, hid a small smile as he overheard the chatter. “Let them,” he murmured under his breath. “Sometimes the best discoveries start with a collision.”
As Owen and Sarah walked out side by side; each pretending not to notice the whispers trailing behind them; the room buzzed with anticipation.
Everyone wanted to see what the stars and the soil would create together.
