Personal Logs of Dr Raphael Enys

[Sam]

Historical Logs

Personal Log: 20th July 2411

We have had some new crew join us on the Blissful. There was one new arrival who did pique my interest; a one Dr Mirazuni Ayesha. A neurosurgeon and cardiologist with impeccable academic credentials - the kind of record Starfleet tends to herald as an example of perfection. The Chief certainly was eager to meet her and I confess I was as well. I think we were all… disappointed at the outcome.

She was sharp in her intellect, that much was expected. But she was also sharp in her manner and speech. Within an hour of arriving, she had already ruffled feathers in a way I did not think possible. One of the junior nurses asked her something relatively innocuous—a simple procedural clarification. Her response was clipped and flat, delivered with no malice: “If you don’t already know that, I have to question how you passed basic training.” It was just a stark efficiency that brooked no argument. It left the poor nurse fumbling with his PADD, avoiding her gaze entirely.

This, I’ve learned quickly, is her way. No indulgences. No softness. Every word and action is deliberate, purposeful, and pointed. It’s the kind of approach that might win battles in a courtroom but feels jarring in the ebb and flow of a Starfleet medical team.

And yet, when I watched her with her first patient, something shifted. She was treating a Vulcan cadet with neural trauma—a straightforward case for someone of her skill level. Her movements were as precise as expected, but her tone with the patient was entirely different. Still calm, still efficient, but there was a weight in her words, as if she chose them carefully to anchor the cadet in his fear. She didn’t offer unnecessary reassurances, no flourishes or pleasantries, but it worked. He trusted her, perhaps because there was no artifice, just the steady, deliberate care she gave.

This is what confounds me about her. With the staff, she’s curt, almost cold. With patients, she’s entirely different. Not warm, but present. It’s as though she’s rationing her empathy, spending it only on those she deems worthy. Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism—if she were warm to everyone, the work might become unbearable. But I suspect there’s more to it than that.

Therein lies the challenge. Starfleet medical teams thrive on collaboration and trust. Her manner doesn’t foster either. The staff already whispers about her, careful to stay out of her way unless absolutely necessary. She doesn’t seem to notice—or perhaps she doesn’t care. I wonder how long this dynamic can hold before it fractures.

As a year her senior, I feel as though I should intervene, but I doubt she’d respond to it kindly. If she’s to thrive here, something will need to change.

Personal Log: 27th July 2411

It’s been a week since Dr Mirazuni joined us, and I must admit, my initial impressions were not exaggerated. If anything, they were understated. She’s a force of nature in sickbay—not the stormy, chaotic kind, but the cold, cutting wind that reshapes the landscape entirely without apology.

Today’s pre-op briefing was a perfect example. We were reviewing a spinal stabilisation procedure for an Andorian engineer who’d been injured during a gravitic systems failure. One of the junior physicians suggested a technique that, while creative, had glaring risks. Before anyone else could comment, Ayesha cut him off mid-sentence. “Do you have evidence to support that,” she asked, “or are you just guessing, gambling with the life of a patient?”

The room went silent. The physician stammered something about wanting to explore alternatives, but her expression didn’t shift. “If you want to explore alternatives, then this is neither the time or the place. Holodeck 2 is free, I gather.” Her tone wasn’t raised, nor was it cruel. It was matter-of-fact, as though she’d just stated the weather. But it landed like a disruptor blast.

I could not stay silent on this, so later I approached her about it. “You could’ve handled that differently,” I suggested, careful to keep my tone neutral. She didn’t even look up from her notes. “What part of what I said was incorrect?” she asked. I admitted that her critique was valid but added that how it was delivered mattered. Finally, she met my gaze, her eyes steady. “I’m not here to nurture egos, Enys. If they’re distracted by how I speak, they’re not focusing on the patient.”

It’s maddening. She’s not wrong—her logic is sound—but the delivery leaves something to be desired. Collaboration requires trust, and trust requires mutual respect. She seems entirely uninterested in fostering that respect, at least among her colleagues.

And yet, with patients, it’s entirely different. I saw her again today with the Andorian engineer. She explained the procedure to him with the same precision she brings to her work, but her tone was… softer, somehow. She didn’t overwhelm him with medical jargon, nor did she sugarcoat the risks. She laid it out plainly, carefully, and the engineer nodded without hesitation, putting his trust entirely in her hands.

It’s this duality that leaves me both frustrated and intrigued. She can be kind when she chooses to be. She simply doesn’t choose it often.

I wonder what drives that choice.

Personal Log: 10th August 2411

Today, Dr Mirazuni and I worked together on a case that perfectly illustrated our differences. A Bolian officer was brought in with a cardiac complication—a rare anomaly that required immediate attention. We didn’t have much time, but enough, I thought, to approach the situation cautiously. I suggested stabilising the patient and running a secondary diagnostic before proceeding.

Ayesha disagreed. “You’re overthinking,” she said, her tone sharp as ever. “If we wait for every data point to align perfectly, we’ll lose him.”

We went back and forth for a few minutes, with her growing visibly impatient. Finally, she said, “Hesitation kills, Enys. Make the call, or I will.” It was a challenge, one I wasn’t entirely ready for. I don’t know what spurred my choice, only that I conceded to her approach.

And, of course, to my great frustration, she was right. Her method worked flawlessly, and the patient stabilised.

Afterward, I approached her about how she handled the disagreement. “You could’ve presented your methodology in a more diplomatic way,” I said, keeping my voice even. She raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “And waste time debating? I am not in the diplomatic corps.” She shrugged as though it were obvious. “I am a medical professional. I made the call. It was the right one.”

Her confidence is infuriating. It’s not arrogance, though—it’s something colder, more calculated. She genuinely doesn’t care if people agree with her, so long as the outcome is successful.

And yet, as much as it frustrates me, I can’t help but admire her. She cuts through indecision like a scalpel, seeing clarity where others hesitate. It’s a skill I envy, though I doubt I’ll ever match it.

I find myself thinking about her more than I’d like - she is a telepath after all. Not just her skill, but the contradictions she embodies. She’s brilliant, exasperating, and entirely unlike anyone I’ve worked with before.

Personal Log: 25th August 2411

A shuttle exploded in the docking bay, leaving several crew members injured. Sickbay was overwhelmed. I was off duty when I was called in, and of course, whom do I find directing the triage than Dr Mirazuni. It was handled with her usual precision, issuing orders and stabilising patients with an efficiency that would be enviable if it weren’t so… clinical.

But the real complication was what I witnessed afterwards. Thinking I’d start my next shift early, I entered before the handover to see her sitting alone on a biobed, reading a PADD. A stolen glance as I approached showed that it was the casualty list.

I hesitated before speaking to her, unsure if she’d welcome the intrusion. “Are you all right?” I asked finally. She didn’t look at me. “We were too slow,” she said simply, her voice devoid of emotion.

I tried to tell her that losses are inevitable, that medicine is as much about limits as it is about victories. She shook her head, cutting me off. “That’s a convenient philosophy, Enys. It doesn’t change the fact that people are dead.”

It wasn’t anger—just a stark, unyielding honesty. And yet, in that moment, I saw something in her that wasn’t just frustration. It was grief, though she’d never call it that.

For all her sharpness, there’s a vulnerability beneath it, one she works tirelessly to keep hidden. I wonder if she even realises it’s there.

The moment was shattered when she berated me for wearing my coat inside out.

Personal Log: 15th November 2411

Today was one of those days that lingers in the mind long after it’s over. A sobering reminder that despite our advancements, we are but mere ants in the galaxy. A Romulan woman was brought into sickbay after a shuttle accident. Her injuries were minor—fractures, some superficial burns—but the real tragedy lay in the lifeless boy she carried in her arms. Her son.

The moment they arrived, she refused to let him go. Security had to intervene, gently prying him from her grasp so we could assess her injuries. Even then, her grief overwhelmed the room, her cries raw and unrelenting, breaking through every attempt to bring calm.

She didn’t speak Federation Standard, and the universal translator faltered. Her words were reduced to garbled fragments that couldn’t capture the depth of her pain. But she kept talking and talking, as if pouring out her grief could somehow bridge the gap. But it couldn’t. All it did was compound more and more misery and heartbreak on us all.

Ayesha was the attending physician. I watched her from across the room as she approached the woman, her usual sharp edges replaced with something quieter, more deliberate. She crouched beside the biobed, her posture steady, her tone calm but firm. “You’re safe here,” she said through the translator. “Let us help you.” But the words fell flat, their meaning lost in the mechanical rhythm of the device.

The woman didn’t stop talking. She gestured wildly, her voice rising and falling in a desperate plea for understanding. It was primal, unfiltered grief, shrieks that tumbled down the halls and sent chills down your spine. But Ayesha stayed where she was, listening intently, nodding when it felt right, as if to say, I hear you, even if I can’t understand. As others stayed away, she remained unmoved, next to the Romulan woman and her grief.

That was not to say she was not moved. Indeed, it was one of the few times I’ve seen Ayesha falter. She thrives in control, in precision, but this was beyond her reach. She couldn’t fix it, couldn’t solve it, and that helplessness showed in the tightness of her jaw, the way her hands hovered just above the biobed as if unsure where to place them.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. The woman eventually allowed Ayesha to treat her injuries, though her cries never stopped. She flinched at every touch, her grief too consuming to notice the care being given.

Afterward, the woman was sedated and moved to quarters to recover. The shift carried on, though a heaviness lingered in the air, an unspoken weight that settled over the staff, the echos of the woman reverberating in our heads. Ayesha said nothing, retreating to her corner of sickbay as soon as the woman was gone.

I found her there an hour later, sitting at a workstation, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on the console. For a moment, I thought she was reviewing the day’s cases, but the stillness in her posture told a different story. “Are you all right?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.

She didn’t look at me. “She wouldn’t let go of her son,” she said, her tone sharp but lacking its usual bite.

My first response caught in my throat and I stood there, unable to respond. When I finally managed to say something, it was hoarse and broken. “You did everything you could.” As soon as I said it, the words felt inadequate.

To her credit, she did not reply back straight away. She shook her head, finally meeting my gaze. "She didn’t need medicine. She needed someone to understand her grief, to explain to her that we understood,” Her voice was quieter now, but the frustration in it was palpable.

I tried to offer reassurance, something about how medicine often deals with the limits of what we can do, but the words rang hollow and even I didn’t believe it. I was almost glad when she cut me off with a short, bitter laugh. “That’s a convenient philosophy,” she said, turning back to her workstation. “It doesn’t change the fact that we failed her.”

She stayed there long after the rest of the team had gone, staring at the same screen, though I doubt she was reading anything.

Personal Log: 5th December 2411

Today, something shifted. It was subtle—so subtle that if I hadn’t been watching closely, I might have missed it altogether. Ayesha Mirazuni, the sharp-tongued, ever-efficient force in sickbay, was practicing Romulan.

I didn’t realise it at first. We’d just finished a gruelling shift, treating the aftermath of a gravimetric systems failure that left several crew members with fractures, concussions, and, in one case, significant internal bleeding. Ayesha had, as always, worked with unrelenting focus. She stabilised the worst cases, directed the junior medics with her usual precision, and left no room for hesitation. But once the chaos subsided, something different caught my attention.

She sat at one of the workstations, her PADD propped up in front of her, her brow furrowed in concentration. At first glance, it seemed like she was reviewing a patient file. But then I heard it—a quiet, measured voice repeating phrases. Romulan phrases.

I slowed my steps, not wanting to interrupt. The words flowed haltingly at first, her pronunciation deliberate but slightly stiff. Then she repeated them, again and again, each attempt more confident than the last. She didn’t notice me at first, which was unusual. Ayesha has an almost preternatural awareness of her surroundings, a sharpness that ensures she’s always in control of a room. But in that moment, she was entirely focused.

“You’re learning Romulan?” I asked, keeping my tone light as I approached.

She glanced up, her expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps, or embarrassment. “It’s practical,” she said, her voice as matter-of-fact as always. “We are often around Romulan colonies, Dr Enys. It is the least I can do to understand them, if only to expedite the medical process.”

It was such a quintessentially Ayesha response: cold, efficient, devoid of any hint of sentimentality. And yet, I knew better. This wasn’t just about practicality. It couldn’t be.

“That’s impressive,” I replied, though I doubted she cared for the compliment.

“It’s a tool,” she said, returning her attention to the PADD. “No different from a scalpel.”

But it was different. I could see it in the way she focused, the way her lips moved carefully over the unfamiliar syllables, as if shaping each word with the same precision she brought to her surgeries. This wasn’t just about adding another skill to her repertoire—it was about bridging a gap she felt deeply, even if she’d never admit it.

The memory of the Romulan woman and her son came back to me then, unbidden but vivid. The way Ayesha had stayed with the woman, listening intently even though she couldn’t understand her words. The frustration in her voice later, when she talked about it.

She doesn’t like to dwell on her perceived failures. She brushes them aside, moving forward with a relentless focus on what comes next. But this—this effort to learn Romulan—felt like her way of addressing what couldn’t be undone.

Even so, I still find myself inexplicably drawn to her lips.

Supplemental 1

Over the next few days, I noticed more signs of her dedication. During our breaks, she’d sit in a quiet corner of sickbay with her PADD, her lips moving silently as she repeated phrases. Occasionally, she’d glance at the Romulan medical reference guides we kept on hand, cross-referencing terms and testing their pronunciation under her breath.

At first, no one else seemed to notice. Ayesha has a way of commanding attention when she wants it, but when she doesn’t, she can disappear into the background with surprising ease. But I noticed. I always notice.

There were moments when her frustration bubbled to the surface—a sharp exhale, a muttered curse in Tellerite when a phrase didn’t come out quite right. That she was well versed in. I tried not to intrude, but curiosity got the better of me one afternoon.

“How’s it going?” I asked, leaning against the console as she worked through a particularly complicated sentence.

She looked up, her expression carefully neutral. “It’s harder than I thought,” she admitted. “Their syntax is complex.”

I smiled, unable to hide my amusement. “Coming from you, that’s saying something.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no real heat in her gaze. “It’s not impossible, billions of people speak this daily,” she said. “I don’t know how,” she added in a low mutter, but loud enough for me to hear.

It was such a rare admission—an acknowledgment of struggle from someone who so often seemed impervious to it. I found myself wanting to know more, to understand what had driven her to take on this challenge. But Ayesha doesn’t invite questions, and I knew better than to push.

Still, the fact that she’d even spoken about it felt significant. She doesn’t let people in easily—she doesn’t let people in at all, really. But in that moment, it felt like a small crack in the armour she so carefully maintains.

Supplemental 2

One evening, after a particularly long shift, I found her in the mess hall, her PADD propped up in front of her as she reviewed Romulan medical terminology. She didn’t notice me at first, which gave me a rare opportunity to watch her without the weight of her sharp gaze.

Her focus was remarkable, the way she repeated each word with careful deliberation, her lips forming unfamiliar shapes with surprising grace. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t hear me approach.

“You’re getting better,” I said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She looked up, her expression guarded. “I would hope one gets better after practice,” she said, her tone as dismissive as ever.

“I can see this matters,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “You wouldn’t put this much effort into it if it didn’t.”

For a moment, I thought she was going to deflect, to brush off the comment with her usual sarcasm. But instead, she sighed—a soft, almost imperceptible sound. “The Romulan woman,” she said finally. “She kept talking. Even though I couldn’t understand her, she kept talking. Why? Why persist when your words mean nothing to another? Why expend that energy?”

I nodded, remembering the scene vividly. “She needed to be heard,” I said.

“And I couldn’t give her that,” Ayesha replied, her voice quieter now. “I don’t like that feeling, Enys. I don’t want it to happen again.”

It was the most vulnerable I’d ever seen her, and it left me momentarily speechless. Ayesha doesn’t show cracks in her armour—she fortifies them, patches them before anyone can notice. But in that moment, she let me see her humanity in a way that felt… significant.

I just wish she would have told me that I had dipped the sleeve of my medical coat in my soup.

Supplemental 3

It is a beginning of a shift in how I see Ayesha—not just as a colleague, but as someone far more complex than I’d allowed myself to realise. For all her sharpness, for all her insistence on practicality, there’s a depth to her that I find both confounding and compelling.

Her decision to learn Romulan isn’t just about practicality—it’s about connection, about bridging the gaps she feels so deeply in moments of helplessness. And though she’d never admit it, it’s about care. Care for her patients, care for her work, and perhaps, care for the people who stand beside her.

I’m starting to see her differently, and it’s… unsettling. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. At least then she’d have one friend on the ship.

Personal Log: 16th December 2411

Ayesha Mirazuni never ceases to surprise me. If you’d asked me when she first arrived on the Blissful whether she’d dedicate hours of her personal time to something as arduous as learning a new language, I’d have laughed. Not because I doubted her capacity—she’s brilliant, infuriatingly so—but because I’d assumed she wouldn’t bother with something that didn’t yield immediate, measurable results.

And yet, here she is. For the past few weeks, she’s been steadily working through Romulan lessons during her off hours. At first, it was almost imperceptible. She’d glance at her PADD in the corner of sickbay, her lips moving silently as she practiced phrases, her focus as sharp as ever. It felt more like an idle hobby than a serious endeavour.

But today, I realised just how determined she is.

Watching her work through those phrases, her voice steady but her frustration evident, I felt a pang of admiration I hadn’t expected. Ayesha has always been brilliant, but brilliance alone doesn’t build connections. This, however—this dedication to understanding, to bridging a gap she could have easily dismissed—was something else entirely.

For the first time, I saw her not just as a colleague, but as someone deeply invested in the people she treats. It wasn’t about being efficient or competent—it was about being present.

And yet, she’d never admit that. To her, this was just another tool to add to her arsenal, another way to ensure she could do her job better. But I knew better.

“Ayesha,” I said after watching her work, “you’re doing something remarkable.”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. “I’ve told you before, it’s just a language, Enys. Don’t romanticise it.”

But later that day, she approached me with a request that caught me completely off guard.

“Your ear have a sharp ear, Enys,” she said bluntly. “Help me fix this.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown by the directness of her request. Ayesha doesn’t ask for help unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“Fix what?” I asked cautiously.

“My pronunciation,” she replied, holding up the PADD. “It’s off. I don’t know why.”

I bit back a smile and nodded, gesturing for her to sit. Over the next hour, we worked together, me offering quiet corrections and her repeating each phrase with dogged determination. Her frustration was palpable at times—a sharp exhale here, a muttered curse there—but she never stopped.

“You’re trying too hard,” I told her at one point. “You’re treating it like a problem to solve, but language isn’t just structure—it’s rhythm, feeling.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “Feeling doesn’t save lives, Enys.”

“No,” I agreed, “but it builds trust. And trust can be just as important.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her expression thoughtful. Then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture that felt like a victory.

That hour we spent together felt significant, though I couldn’t quite articulate why. Ayesha rarely lets anyone into her world, and yet, in that moment, she allowed me to see a side of her she keeps carefully hidden.

It wasn’t just about the language—it was about the vulnerability in admitting she needed help, the quiet determination in her voice as she worked through each phrase, the trust she placed in me to guide her.

I don’t know what this means for us—if it means anything at all—but I feel that her asking me for help changes something. For all her sharpness, for all her insistence on keeping others at arm’s length, there’s a depth to Ayesha that I hadn’t fully understood before.

And I can’t help but want to understand it more. It was only later that I realised that it was her birthday.

Personal Log: 2nd January 2412

Today was one of those days where Ayesha’s sharpness was like walking barefoot over shards of glass. If I’m honest, she’s exhausting. Brilliant, yes—arguably the most competent physician I’ve worked alongside—but there are moments when her unyielding efficiency feels suffocating.

The morning began with a relatively routine surgical case—a Tellarite with a spinal compression injury sustained during a malfunction in the warp core maintenance platform. It was complex but not unmanageable, and Ayesha took the lead, as she often does. I was assisting, though “assisting” might be too generous a term for how she operates.

“Hand me the cortical stimulator,” she said, her tone clipped.

I reached for it, but before I could place it in her hand, she added, “Not that one. The Mark IV. The one that actually works for this kind of injury.”

Her tone was biting, and it landed harder than I’d care to admit. I handed her the correct tool, swallowing my frustration.

“A simple clarification would’ve sufficed,” I said quietly, careful to keep my tone neutral.

Her response was immediate. “And waste time explaining something that shouldn’t need explaining? No.”

The rest of the procedure continued in icy silence. Ayesha was, as always, flawless in her execution, navigating the intricacies of the Tellarite’s spinal column with a precision that left me in awe. But her demeanour grated on me in a way that overshadowed even her brilliance.

After the patient was stable and the surgical team dispersed, I caught up with her in the equipment sterilisation area.

“You could try being less abrasive,” I said, folding my arms as I leaned against the counter.

She didn’t look up from the instrument she was cleaning. “And you could try being faster. Everyone has room for improvement.”

It wasn’t the response I was looking for, but it was the one I’d expected.

“You’re pushing people too hard,” I pressed. “Not everyone operates at your level, and berating them isn’t going to get them there any faster.”

She finally turned to face me, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “If they can’t handle pressure, they shouldn’t be here. I’m not interested in coddling anyone, least of all you.”

Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—just cold honesty. Ayesha doesn’t insult people to wound them; she does it because she sees no value in sugar-coating the truth. And while I admire her for that, it’s maddening to work alongside.

“I’m not asking you to coddle anyone,” I said, my voice softer now. “I’m asking you to recognise that people aren’t machines. You can’t just program them to meet your expectations.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something—understanding, maybe, or the faintest hint of regret. “If I wanted machines, Enys, I would have used the Medicomp,” she said finally, turning back to her work.

It wasn’t an apology, but it was the closest I’d get.

Days like this remind me why working with Ayesha is both a privilege and a challenge. She’s extraordinary—there’s no denying that. But her brilliance comes with a sharpness that cuts those around her, even when she doesn’t mean to.

And yet, despite my frustrations, I find myself wanting to understand her. For all her sharp edges, there’s a depth to her that I’ve only glimpsed in rare, fleeting moments.

I just don’t know if she’ll ever let anyone in long enough to see the whole picture.

Personal Log: 27th January 2412

Today was strange—not because of the cases we treated, which were fairly routine, but because of Ayesha. For once, her sharp edges softened, and I saw a side of her that she keeps buried beneath layers of precision and efficiency.

The day started with a minor medical emergency: a junior engineer had accidentally inhaled toxic fumes while working on a faulty plasma relay. His injuries weren’t life-threatening, but his respiratory tract had sustained significant irritation, leaving him unable to speak above a whisper.

Ayesha handled his treatment with her usual precision, but it was what happened afterward that surprised me.

The engineer was visibly shaken, his hands trembling as he clutched the edge of the biobed. He tried to speak, but the words came out in a raspy wheeze, his frustration evident. Ayesha paused, her gaze steady as she watched him struggle.

“Don’t,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder—a rare gesture of physical contact from her. “You don’t need to explain. I understand.”

Her words were simple, but they had a profound effect. The engineer’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded, his breathing slowing as he let the tension drain from his body.

I watched the exchange from across the room, struck by how different she seemed in that moment. It wasn’t just the words she’d chosen—it was the way she’d said them, the softness in her tone, the quiet empathy she so rarely shows.

When the shift ended, I found her reviewing notes at her workstation.

“That was… unexpected,” I said, leaning against the console which was becoming a known pasttime of mine now.

She glanced at me, her expression neutral. “What was?”

“The way you handled that engineer,” I replied. “It was… kind.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, as if the word itself offended her. “Kindness doesn’t fix injuries, Enys. Efficiency does.”

“And yet, you still took the time to reassure him,” I pointed out.

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze flicking back to her notes. “He was panicking,” she said finally. “Panic wastes energy. Calming him was practical.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her insistence on framing everything through the lens of practicality. “You can call it practical if you want,” I said, “but it was also kind.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the gesture. “If you’re done Dr Enys, I believe Petty Officer Evesh has gone into labour… and you know Klingon births are violent,”

I was confused at that, but it was confirmed when a nurse arrived, panting to deliver the message. I looked at Ayesha, before I gathered she had used her telepathy to find out.

The birth was indeed violent, but the arrival of a new Klingon baby boy onto the ship was worth the broken biobed.

This interaction felt significant, though I doubt she’d agree. Ayesha isn’t someone who goes out of her way to comfort others—at least, not overtly. But in that moment, she’d offered something more than medical treatment. She’d offered reassurance, and it had mattered.

It’s moments like these that remind me why I find her so fascinating. For all her sharpness, for all her insistence on efficiency above all else, there’s a warmth in her that she doesn’t fully understand—or perhaps doesn’t want to.

I think she’s afraid of what it might mean to let people see that side of her. But every now and then, it slips through, and I can’t help but wonder what would happen if she allowed herself to embrace it. I know I for one would like her to embrace it.

Personal Log: 7th February 2412

It is a date that will live in infamy in my mind. The distress signal came in the early hours, interrupting what little rest most of the crew had managed after an already exhausting week. A Tal Shiar assault on a Romulan colony—a coordinated, calculated strike—had left the settlement in ruins. Civilians were trapped beneath collapsed buildings, fires raged uncontrollably, and critical infrastructure had been destroyed. The casualty estimates climbed with each update from Starfleet Command.

We were dispatched immediately, the Blissful’s mission clear: stabilise the wounded, evacuate survivors, and do what we could to bring order to the chaos. But as we prepared, a growing unease settled over me. The Blissful is a medical support ship, not a combat-ready vessel. We were entering a warzone with minimal protection, relying on the tenuous understanding that the Tal Shiar’s interest in the colony had concluded.

As the briefing ended, Ayesha stepped forward, her voice steady as she volunteered to lead the triage team on the surface. I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Fieldwork has never been her preference. She thrives in the controlled environment of the sickbay, where precision and efficiency reign. The unpredictability of triage seemed like the antithesis of everything she values.

“Are you sure?” I asked, catching up with her as the room emptied.

She didn’t stop walking. “I’m not here to watch from the sidelines, Enys. It has to be me. Someone else will get it wrong.”

When we beamed down, the devastation was overwhelming, far beyond what we imagined it to be. The air was thick with smoke and ash, the ground uneven beneath our feet as we navigated streets littered with debris. Entire buildings had collapsed, their skeletal remains jutting out against the hazy sky like broken teeth.

Civilians wandered aimlessly, their faces pale and blank with shock. Others screamed for help, their cries rising above the distant roar of fires and the groaning of weakened structures. It was chaos, pure and unrelenting.

Ayesha didn’t falter. She took in the scene with a quick, sharp glance before issuing orders in fluent Romulan for the benefit of the Romulan volunteers on the ground. Her voice cut through the noise like a blade, commanding immediate attention. “Set up triage here,” she said, gesturing to a relatively clear stretch of ground. “We’ll stabilise critical cases first—non-ambulatory patients get priority. Everyone else waits. Keep the pathways clear for evacuation shuttles. Stabilise and then transport. Move.”

Her confidence was magnetic. Even the volunteers, initially wary of Starfleet’s presence, began following her lead without question.

The initial rush of patients was staggering. Men, women, and children were carried or dragged into the triage zone, their injuries ranging from superficial cuts to life-threatening internal trauma. Ayesha moved among them with purpose, her tone commanding but not unkind as she assessed injuries and directed treatments.

“Stabilise him now,” she told a medic hesitating over a critical patient. “If you wait for a second opinion, he’ll be dead.”

Her sharpness, which so often grates in the quieter confines of sickbay, felt entirely appropriate here. The chaos demanded clarity, and she provided it in abundance.

But there were moments that stood out—moments where her sharpness softened into something more.

A Romulan man, his leg crushed beneath rubble, refused treatment, insisting that we help his daughter first. His words were frantic, his fear palpable as he clung to her, shielding her small frame with his body. The medics hesitated, unsure how to proceed.

Ayesha crouched beside him, her voice low but firm as she spoke in Romulan. I didn’t understand every word, but her tone carried a reassurance that transcended language. The man’s grip loosened, and he nodded reluctantly, allowing us to stabilise him. Ayesha took the child in her arms, cradling her in her arms and speaking softly in Romulan, and carried her to the evacuation shuttle herself.

By the end of the first day, we’d stabilised dozens of patients, but the sheer scale of the destruction left a weight on all of us. Entire families were buried beneath the rubble, their voices growing fainter as the hours dragged on. The air was thick with loss, every breath heavy with the knowledge of lives slipping away just beyond our reach.

Ayesha didn’t speak much as we prepared to beam back to the ship for the night, having handed over to the second team. Even this was a challenge, and it was after a direct order from the Captain did Ayesha even think about handing over. Her shoulders were rigid, her jaw tight, but her silence said more than words ever could.

“She’s remarkable,” one of the medics murmured to me as we watched her work.

“She is,” I agreed, though the words felt insufficient.

It struck me then how much she carried, how she bore the weight of every decision, every failure, as if it were her personal responsibility to save everyone. I wanted to tell her she’d done enough, that she was extraordinary, but I knew she wouldn’t accept it.

So I stayed quiet, matching her silence as we prepared for the next day.

Personal Log: 8th February 2412

The second day began with the same grim urgency as the first, but the atmosphere felt heavier. Reports from the colony painted an even bleaker picture than before. Overnight, structural collapses had claimed more lives, and the already devastated settlement was now teetering on the edge of total ruin.

The Tal Shiar’s calculated brutality was evident everywhere we turned. The medical facility—a modest building that had served as the colony’s primary source of care—had been deliberately targeted, reducing it to a smouldering heap of rubble.

Whatever supplies the colony once had were gone, forcing us to rely entirely on the limited resources we’d brought with us.

Patients continued to flood the triage zone, their injuries more severe, their hope diminishing with every hour. Burns, fractures, internal trauma—every case seemed more critical than the last. The medics worked tirelessly, but the sheer volume of need overwhelmed even the most experienced among us.

Ayesha was everywhere. She moved through the chaos with a determination that bordered on relentless, her commands sharp and efficient as she directed treatments and stabilised patients. “This one first,” she told me, gesturing to a young Romulan woman with severe abdominal trauma. “The rest can wait.”

There was no hesitation in her voice, no room for doubt. She expected immediate action, and when it wasn’t delivered, her sharpness became a blade.

At one point, a junior medic froze during a critical procedure—a teenage boy with a collapsed lung. The medic’s hands hovered uncertainly over the patient’s chest, his breathing quick and shallow as panic set in.

“If you’re not going to act, step aside,” Ayesha snapped, her voice cutting through the chaos. The words jolted the medic into action, though I could see the tears welling in his eyes as he worked.

Perhaps it was the tiredness, or the revultion I felt of the sitatution that led me to act. I pulled her aside during a rare lull in the madness, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “You need to ease up,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm. “They’re doing their best.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding. “Their best isn’t enough,” she replied. “Not here. Not now.”

The words stung, but I could see the truth in them. This wasn’t a training simulation or a controlled environment where mistakes could be corrected. This was life and death, every second laden with the weight of impossible choices.

“You can’t push them like this,” I pressed. “They’re people, Ayesha. They’re going to break if you keep treating them like machines.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something—frustration, perhaps, or the faintest trace of regret. “If they break, people die,” she said simply. “I’m not here to coddle them, Enys. I’m here to save lives.”

It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it was the one I expected. Ayesha doesn’t compromise, not when it comes to her standards. And while her sharpness often grates, it’s that same unyielding focus that makes her extraordinary.

Later that afternoon, we discovered a young Romulan boy trapped beneath the remains of the medical facility. His breathing was shallow, his pulse weak, but he was alive. The rescue team hesitated, uncertain if they could extract him without causing further injury.

“We don’t have time for this,” Ayesha said, her tone sharper than usual. Without waiting for consensus, she pushed past the team and crawled into the rubble herself.

It was reckless—exactly the kind of impulsive decision I would’ve argued against if I’d had the chance. But Ayesha doesn’t wait for permission when lives are on the line. Ten minutes later, she emerged, covered in dust and blood, the boy cradled in her arms.

Her expression was unreadable, her hands trembling slightly as she handed him off to the medics waiting nearby. She didn’t speak as she straightened, brushing the dirt from her uniform with a precision that felt almost mechanical. I knew it took more than bravery for her to do that; she hated the feeling of anything touching her, dirt especially.

That night, back on the ship, I found her in sickbay, seated at her usual workstation. The casualty lists were spread out before her, but she wasn’t reading them. Her gaze was distant, her posture rigid, and for the first time, she looked… tired. Not just physically, but in a way that seemed to go deeper, as if the weight of the day had finally breached her defences.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” I said quietly, pulling up a chair beside her.

She didn’t look at me. “I don’t need help,” she replied, her tone sharper than the words warranted.

“Ayesha—”

“I’m fine, Enys.”

But she wasn’t. The tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her voice—it was clear that the day’s events had taken their toll. For someone who thrives on control, on precision, the chaos of the colony was an affront to everything she values.

I wanted to tell her that she’d done more than enough, that her leadership had saved lives, but I knew she wouldn’t hear it. So I stayed beside her, the silence between us heavy but unspoken.

This day showed me the limits of Ayesha’s resilience. For all her sharpness, for all her unyielding determination, she’s still like us. She carries the weight of every failure, every life lost, a reminder that she could always do better.

And yet, for all my frustration with her, I can’t help but admire her. She’s extraordinary, not just for her brilliance but for her ability to keep moving forward, even when the burden seems insurmountable.

I just wish she’d let someone share that burden with her.

Personal Log: 10th February 2412

The mission is over. The colony has been evacuated, the critically injured stabilised, and the settlement left in the hands of local authorities. By all objective measures, we succeeded. And yet, as I sit here in the quiet of my quarters, the weight of the past few days feels almost unbearable.

It wasn’t just the chaos, the destruction, or the relentless tide of wounded—it was the moments in between. The quiet glimpses of humanity amid the wreckage. The decisions we had to make, knowing full well that every choice came at a cost. And above all, it was watching Ayesha navigate it all with a determination that seemed both unbreakable and unsustainable.

The final morning began with a grim efficiency. Ayesha, as always, was the first to step into the triage zone, her posture straight and her expression unreadable. She gave orders in fluent Romulan, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. Even the most wary of the Romulan volunteers followed her lead without hesitation.

But something was different. Her sharpness, which had been so vital over the past two days, seemed dulled at the edges. Her movements were still precise, her words still cutting, but there was a weariness in her that hadn’t been there before.

It became clear as the hours wore on that the mission had taken its toll on all of us, but on Ayesha, it seemed to have settled deeper. She worked tirelessly, stabilising patients, coordinating evacuations, and making impossible decisions with the same unflinching resolve as always. But there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—where her mask slipped.

One such moment came near the end of the day. A Romulan elder approached her, his granddaughter clinging to his leg. The girl had suffered severe burns, her small frame trembling as she clutched at his robes. The elder spoke in Romulan, his voice thick with emotion as he thanked Ayesha for saving the child.

She nodded, her expression unreadable, and replied in his language, her tone soft but firm. It was a side of her I rarely see—a gentleness that she so often hides beneath layers of precision and efficiency.

The elder placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip steady despite the tremor in his own voice. “You gave us hope when we had none,” he said, his words clear even without the translator.

For a moment, Ayesha didn’t respond. She simply stood there, the weight of his gratitude pressing against her like a physical force. Then she nodded again, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It was my duty,” she said quietly.

But it wasn’t just duty. It never is with her.

Back on the Blissful, the silence was deafening. The triage zone on the surface had been loud, chaotic, filled with the cries of the injured and the constant hum of activity. But here, in the sterile quiet of sickbay, the absence of sound felt almost unbearable.

Ayesha sat at her workstation, the casualty lists spread out before her. She didn’t look up as I approached, her gaze fixed on the names and numbers as if they held answers to questions she couldn’t articulate.

“We saved them,” I said, breaking the silence.

Her eyes flicked toward me, and for a moment, I thought she might agree. But then she shook her head, her voice quieter than I’d ever heard it. “Not enough of them.”

I sat down beside her, the weight of her words settling over both of us. “You did everything you could,” I said gently.

“It wasn’t enough,” she replied, her tone flat but carrying an undercurrent of something heavier.

Her hands rested on the edge of the console, her fingers curling and uncurling as if she were trying to grasp something just out of reach. For someone who thrives on control, on precision, the chaos of the past few days had been an affront to everything she values.

“You carried them,” I said finally. “All of them. Even when you didn’t have to.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away. “That’s the problem, Enys. I couldn’t carry them all.”

I reached out then, placing my hand over hers. It was a small gesture, one that I wasn’t sure she’d accept. For someone who avoids physical contact, even the briefest touch can feel like an intrusion. But she didn’t pull away.

We sat like that for a while, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that speaks volumes, the kind that says all the things words can’t.

“I’m not going to tell you to let it go,” I said eventually. “I know you won’t. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed on the casualty lists. But then, slowly, she nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

This mission has left its mark on all of us, but on Ayesha, it’s carved deeper than I think even she realises. For all her sharpness, for all her insistence on efficiency above all else, she feels the weight of every failure, every life lost.

I’ve always admired her brilliance, her unyielding focus, but now… now I see the humanity beneath it. The cracks in her armour, the vulnerabilities she tries so hard to hide.

And I realise that I care about her more than I ever intended to.

Personal Log: 18th February 2412

The news came this morning during a routine briefing in the observation lounge. Starfleet had reviewed the reports from the Romulan Colony mission and decided to award several commendations. Among them was a Silver Star for Dr Mirazuni Ayesha, recognising her extraordinary leadership and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds.

The announcement was met with a ripple of polite applause from the staff, but Ayesha’s reaction was predictably muted. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, her expression carefully neutral, as if the commendation had nothing to do with her. It was classic Ayesha—unflinching, unyielding, and entirely uninterested in accolades.

After the meeting, as we made our way back to sickbay, I couldn’t resist teasing her. “A Silver Star, Dr Mirazuni. That’s quite the accomplishment. Do you feel any different now that you’re officially a hero?”

She shot me a withering look. “If you’re expecting me to give a speech, Enys, don’t hold your breath.”

Later that day, I found her alone in the auxiliary medical bay, going through the post-mission reports. She was seated at the central console, her back straight and her gaze fixed on the screen in front of her.

“You know,” I said, leaning against the doorway, giving the console a rest for a day, “most people would take a moment to celebrate.”

She didn’t look up. “Most people aren’t me.”

I stepped closer, folding my arms as I studied her. “You deserve this, Ayesha. What you did on that colony was extraordinary.”

Her fingers stilled over the console, but she didn’t turn to face me. “We lost people,” she said quietly. “Good people. Children. Families. Tell me, Enys, what part of that deserves celebration?”

Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a weight that I recognised all too well. Ayesha doesn’t process grief the way most people do. She doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t let it surface. She buries it deep, layering sharpness and efficiency over the cracks to keep herself intact.

“This isn’t about the losses,” I said after a moment. “It’s about what you gave them—hope, a chance to survive, when no one else could. That matters.”

She turned then, her expression unreadable. “Hope doesn’t bring back the dead.”

“No,” I agreed, “but it gives the living something to hold onto. You gave them that, Ayesha. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

The formal ceremony took place later that evening in the main briefing room. It was a small affair, attended by the senior staff and a handful of other commendation recipients. Captain Riegar gave a short speech, her voice steady as she recounted the details of the mission and the actions that had earned Ayesha her award.

“She exemplified the very best of Starfleet,” she said. “In the face of unimaginable adversity, Dr Mirazuni demonstrated extraordinary courage and leadership. Her actions saved countless lives, and for that, we are proud to present her with the Silver Star.”

There was a moment of silence as the captain stepped forward, the medal glinting in the light as she pinned it to her. Ayesha accepted it with her usual composure, inclining her head slightly before stepping back. She didn’t smile, didn’t say a word, but her presence filled the room nonetheless.

After the ceremony, I found her in the observation lounge, standing alone by the viewport. The Silver Star was in her hand, the ribbon trailing loosely between her fingers.

“Is this where you give me another lecture about hope?” she asked without turning around.

“Not unless you want one,” I replied, stepping beside her.

She glanced at me, her expression softer than usual. “It’s a medal, Enys. That’s all it is.”

“It’s not just a medal,” I said. “It’s recognition of what you accomplished, of what you gave to those people.”

She looked back out at the stars, her gaze distant. “I didn’t do it for recognition. I did it because no one else could.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be acknowledged.”

She was silent for a long moment, her fingers curling around the medal. “It doesn’t change anything,” she said finally.

“No,” I agreed, “but it doesn’t have to. Sometimes, it’s enough just to know that what you did mattered.”

She didn’t respond, but as she turned to leave, she hesitated. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice almost inaudible. And then she was gone.

Ayesha Mirazuni is one of the most complex people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t seek recognition, doesn’t crave validation, and yet, she carries the weight of every life she couldn’t save.

The Silver Star may mean little to her, but to the rest of us, it’s a reminder of what she’s capable of—her brilliance, her determination, and the humanity she so often hides beneath her sharp exterior.

And to me, it’s a reminder of why I admire her so deeply.

Personal Log: 22nd February 2412

Today was… quiet. For the first time in weeks, sickbay was calm. No shuttle accidents, no plasma burns, no emergency broadcasts from nearby systems—just the hum of the ship and the occasional beep of monitoring equipment. You’d think I’d relish the reprieve, but instead, I found myself unsettled, like the quiet was too loud.

Ayesha spent most of the day reviewing patient files and inventory reports, her sharp gaze fixed on the console as if it held answers to questions no one else dared to ask. She’s always focused, but there was something different about her today—a stillness that felt out of place.

I suppose the aftermath of the Romulan Colony mission still lingers. For all her insistence on practicality, I know she carries the weight of those days as heavily as the rest of us, if not more.

During our break, I found her in the mess hall, seated in the far corner with a cup of raktajino she was clearly ignoring. Her PADD sat on the table, displaying what I assumed was another Romulan language exercise.

“Studying again?” I asked as I slid into the seat across from her.

She glanced up, her expression unreadable. “It’s not studying. It’s refining.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her insistence on framing everything in the most clinical terms possible. “Right. Because you’ve already mastered it, haven’t you?”

Her lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile she’d allow. “Not yet. Their idioms are unnecessarily convoluted.”

For a moment, the conversation drifted into familiar territory—discussions about language structure, her frustrations with certain Romulan phrases, and my attempts to offer context she didn’t ask for but grudgingly accepted.

But then, the tone shifted.

“Do you ever think about what we left behind on the colony?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter than usual.

The question caught me off guard. Ayesha doesn’t ask things like this. She doesn’t reflect aloud, doesn’t invite others into her thoughts unless it serves a practical purpose.

“All the time,” I admitted. “And I know you do, too.”

She looked down at her raktajino, her fingers tracing the edge of the cup. “I just wonder if it was enough. If I was enough.”

It was such a rare admission, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, that I didn’t know how to respond at first. Ayesha doesn’t doubt herself, not outwardly. But in that moment, I saw the weight she carried, the cracks she refused to let anyone see.

“You were,” I said finally. “You are.”

She didn’t reply, but the way she looked at me then—brief, fleeting, but unguarded—spoke volumes.

That evening, we stayed late in sickbay, going over the new emergency protocols that had been implemented following the colony mission. It was tedious work, the kind of administrative task that no one enjoys but everyone understands is necessary.

As the hours dragged on, I found myself watching her more than I should have. The way her brow furrowed when she disagreed with a particular protocol. The way her delicate fingers drummed lightly against the console as she waited for a file to load. The way her dark eyes glittered as she read, the way her faint nose ridges rippled as she talked, the way her earring peaked out faintly from her soft hair. The way she seemed both entirely present and entirely elsewhere all at once.

At one point, she cut in, without even looking up.

“Do you have something to add, Enys, or are you just observing?”

There was no heat in her words, just the familiar edge of her sarcasm.

“Just admiring your efficiency,” I replied, leaning back in my chair. Of course she knew. She’d just telepathed it out of me.

She rolled her eyes. “After several months of observation, one would have hoped that you’d learned something by now,”

These moments, these quiet shifts in our dynamic, feel significant in ways I can’t quite articulate. Ayesha has always been a force—sharp, unrelenting, and brilliant—but now, I’m starting to see the humanity beneath it all.

And I think she’s starting to let me see it, too. At least, I hope she is.

Personal Log: 3rd March 2412

March has arrived, but the tension left behind by the Romulan Colony mission remains. The days feel heavier somehow, as if the weight of what we experienced lingers in every quiet moment. Ayesha hasn’t spoken about it directly since that night in the mess hall, but I see its echoes in everything she does.

She’s been more focused than usual, if that’s even possible. Every shift, every task, every interaction is executed with a precision that borders on perfection. To an outside observer, she’d appear untouched by the events of the colony, but I know better.

I’ve learned to read the silences between her words; the way her shoulders tense when she thinks no one is looking, the way her gaze lingers on casualty reports just a second too long. Ayesha doesn’t show her grief outwardly, but it’s there, layered beneath her sharp edges like a fault line waiting to fracture.

Today, during a routine review of medical protocols, we clashed over the prioritisation of resources in mass-casualty scenarios. It was a hypothetical exercise, designed to test the team’s decision-making processes, but Ayesha treated it with the same intensity she brings to a real crisis.

“We need to prioritise efficiency,” she said, her tone as sharp as ever. “Triage isn’t about saving everyone—it’s about saving as many as possible.”

I nodded, knowing she wasn’t wrong, but her delivery grated on me nonetheless. “True,” I replied, “but efficiency doesn’t mean abandoning compassion. Patients aren’t numbers, Ayesha. They’re people.”

Her gaze snapped to mine, and for a moment, the air between us felt charged. “Compassion doesn’t save lives, Enys. Action does. If you hesitate because you’re trying to make everyone feel better, people die.”

Her words were cutting, but there was something else beneath them—something raw and unspoken.

Afterward, when the meeting ended and the others had left, I approached her. “That wasn’t about triage,” I said quietly.

She didn’t respond immediately, her attention fixed on the PADD in her hands. “You think you know me well enough to make that call?”

“I think I know when you’re carrying more than you let on,” I replied.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought she might push me away. But then she sighed, setting the PADD down on the table. “The colony changed how I see things,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “It made me realise how little room there is for error. For sentiment.” There was a pause before she added, “Sentiment didn’t save those people,” almost to herself. “Decisiveness did.”

“And you were decisive,” I said gently. “But you were compassionate, too. That’s why they trusted you.”

She looked at me then, her black eyes searching, as if trying to find something in my words she could believe. But instead of replying, she simply nodded, her silence heavy with everything she didn’t say.

Later that evening, I found her in sickbay, going over the results of a diagnostic scan for one of the injured Romulan evacuees we’d brought aboard weeks ago. She was frowning at the screen, her focus so intense that she didn’t notice me approach.

“You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep this up,” I said, leaning against the console beside her.

She didn’t look up. “If I stop, someone else pays the price.”

Her words struck a chord, and I felt the familiar frustration rising in my chest. “You can’t carry everyone, Ayesha. You’ll break under the weight.”

Finally, she turned to face me, her expression unreadable. “I’m not broken, Enys.”

“No,” I agreed, holding her gaze. “But you’re fallible, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, we stood there, the silence stretching between us. Then, to my surprise, she reached out and placed a hand on my arm with a small sigh. It was a fleeting gesture, barely more than a touch, but it felt significant.

Personal Log: 28th March 2412

March is drawing to a close, and with it comes a sense of tension I can’t quite place. It’s not the kind that stems from crises or emergencies—sickbay has been relatively calm for weeks now—but something quieter, more insidious. It’s in the way Ayesha’s posture stiffens when she thinks no one is watching, the way she lingers over patient reports as if searching for errors that don’t exist.

She’s always been meticulous, but lately, it feels different. There’s a weight in her actions, an undercurrent of something I can’t name.

The day began with our usual routine—inventory checks, equipment calibration, and the inevitable bureaucratic tedium of Starfleet’s reporting requirements. Ayesha was uncharacteristically quiet, her responses clipped even by her standards.

When I commented on it, she waved me off. “I’m fine, Enys. Don’t start.”

I didn’t push, though her words lingered in my mind. “Fine” is a word she uses like a shield, a way to deflect questions she doesn’t want to answer.

Later, during our rounds, I noticed her gaze linger on the medical log of a Romulan evacuee who’d been treated during the colony mission. The patient had been stabilised and discharged weeks ago, but Ayesha’s expression suggested she was still carrying that case with her.

“You’re still thinking about them, aren’t you?” I asked as we left the ward.

She didn’t break stride. “I think about all of them.” There was no sharpness in her tone, no edge. Just a quiet honesty that caught me off guard.

That evening, I found her in the observation lounge, seated near the viewport with a cup of raktajino she’d barely touched. The stars stretched endlessly beyond the glass, their light casting soft shadows across her features.

“You’re brooding,” I said lightly as I approached.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “Observing,” she corrected.

“Observing what?”

“Everything.”

I sat beside her, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, the quiet hum of the ship the only sound.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Do you ever wonder if it’s enough? What we do?”

Her question caught me off guard. Ayesha isn’t one for philosophical musings, at least not aloud. But there was a softness in her voice, a vulnerability that felt… rare.

“All the time,” I admitted. “But I think it has to be. Otherwise, what’s the alternative?”

She nodded slowly, her gaze still fixed on the stars. “I envy that certainty.”

“It’s not certainty,” I said. “It’s hope. And I think you have more of it than you let on.”

She didn’t respond, but the way her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, told me my words had landed.

Before she left, she hesitated, her hand resting on the back of her chair.

“You’re getting rather good, Enys,” she said softly, not meeting my gaze.

“At what?”

“At not pushing,” she replied. And then, almost as an afterthought, “At listening.”

It was such a simple thing, but coming from her, it felt monumental.

There’s a quiet shift happening between us, something I can’t quite define but feel in every shared glance and unspoken word. Ayesha is still as sharp and guarded as ever, but moments like these make me think she’s letting me in, piece by piece.

And I find myself wanting to understand her more with every passing day.

Personal Log: 10th April 2412

There’s been a noticeable change in Ayesha over the past few weeks. It’s not in her work—her precision and focus remain as sharp as ever—but in the way she carries herself, the way she interacts with me when the noise of the day has faded into the background.

For someone who so often keeps others at arm’s length, she’s been… softer. Not in the overt, easy ways most people are, but in small, subtle gestures that feel intentional. A glance held a moment too long. A sharp comment softened by a hint of humour. A quiet “thank you” when she doesn’t think anyone else will hear it.

It’s these small moments that linger with me long after the shifts end.

It started innocuously enough. We were in the mess hall late one evening, the room mostly empty save for a few night-shift crew members scattered across the far tables. Ayesha sat across from me, her PADD in hand as she reviewed the latest updates to Starfleet’s medical protocols.

“You know,” I said, breaking the silence, “you’re allowed to stop working once in a while.”

She didn’t look up. “And miss the opportunity to correct all the mistakes Starfleet seems intent on making? Unlikely.”

Her tone was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she glanced at me.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Efficient,” she corrected.

“Exhausting,” I countered.

She finally set the PADD down, her lips twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “You seem too persistent Enys, one might think you have ulterior motives,”

“You should know, I’m sure you’ve dived into my brain enough,” I said, meeting her gaze.

For a moment, she held my eyes, her expression softening ever so slightly. It was one of those rare, fleeting moments where the shields that she manages to maintain around her weakened, if only a little.

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” she said finally, but her voice lacked its usual bite.

Afterward, as we made our way back to sickbay, the conversation drifted into less guarded territory. We talked about the small things—the inefficiencies of Starfleet’s supply chain, the absurdity of replicator malfunctions, the peculiar quirks of our colleagues.

It was easy, comfortable, in a way that our interactions rarely are. Ayesha didn’t deflect or retreat into sarcasm, and I didn’t feel the need to tread carefully around her sharp edges. If someone had told me that I would have such a conversation with her when she arrived, I would have scanned them for brain trauma.

At one point, as we passed by one of the observation ports, she paused, her gaze drawn to the stars beyond.

“Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t chosen Starfleet?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

The question caught me off guard. “Not often,” I admitted. “But I think it would’ve felt… smaller.”

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the viewport. “My father wanted me to stay in civilian service. Sometimes I wonder if smaller would’ve been easier.”

“Maybe,” I said, stepping closer. “But it wouldn’t have been better.”

She turned to look at me then, her expression unreadable but her dark eyes searching, as if she were trying to decide whether she agreed.

Back in sickbay, as we reviewed the night’s reports, there was a moment that felt… significant. I reached across the console to hand her a PADD, and our fingers brushed briefly.

It was the kind of thing that would normally go unnoticed—a fleeting, accidental contact—but this time, it lingered. She didn’t pull away immediately, and when she finally did, she looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

Neither of us said anything, but the air between us felt charged in a way I hadn’t expected.

Ayesha Mirazuni is a study in contrasts. For all her sharpness, all her insistence on efficiency and practicality, there’s a depth to her that she rarely lets anyone see. But lately, I feel like I’ve been catching glimpses of it—small, fleeting moments that leave me wanting to understand her more.

And I think she’s letting me.

Personal Log: 14th April 2412

Ayesha Mirazuni continues to surprise me. For all her sharpness and unrelenting professionalism in sickbay, she’s never struck me as someone who indulges in leisure—or, for that matter, anything that isn’t directly related to her work. But today, I saw a different side of her, one I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

It started innocuously enough. I’d decided to take a break from the monotony of administrative tasks and wandered into the holodeck to check the schedule. To my surprise, I found Ayesha listed as the current occupant. My curiosity got the better of me, so I lingered outside, debating whether or not to intrude.

When the program finished and the doors slid open, I was greeted by an image I never expected to see: Ayesha, still catching her breath, her hair slightly damp with sweat, holding a volleyball. She was wearing a training outfit; loose black joggers that covered her legs, and a loose-fitting blue top that hid her form remarkably well, leaving only the forearms uncovered. It struck me that this was the most skin I’d seen of her; it had only really been face and hands previous.

The holodeck program was a simple one: a sunny beach with a volleyball court set up near the water’s edge. The holographic players dissolved as she stepped out, leaving behind an empty court and the faint sound of waves.

“What’s this?” I asked, unable to hide my amusement.

She gave me one of her trademark looks, a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “It’s called volleyball, Enys. Surely even you’ve heard of it.”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said, crossing my arms. “But I didn’t take you for the athletic type.”

“Because I spend all my time cleaning up after other people’s mistakes?” she countered, her tone dry but not unkind.

I laughed, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Fair point.”

She tossed the ball to me, her movements casual but precise. “You play?”

“Not since the Academy,” I admitted, catching the ball.

“Then it’s time to refresh your memory,” she said, gesturing for me to follow her back into the holodeck.

I should’ve known I was in trouble the moment the program reactivated. The holographic players were gone, replaced by just the two of us on opposite sides of the net. The beach was pristine, the sun warm against my skin, and for a moment, I allowed myself to think this might be fun.

It wasn’t fun.

Ayesha served first, the ball slicing through the air with a precision that left me scrambling to return it. She moved with an ease that was both frustrating and awe-inspiring, her every motion calculated yet fluid.

“You’re holding back,” I called out after she scored her third consecutive point.

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d appreciate the mercy.”

“I’d appreciate a chance,” I shot back, grinning despite myself.

She smirked, and for the next half hour, I was thoroughly outmatched. She dove for impossible saves, spiked the ball with enough force to make me flinch, and still managed to carry on a conversation as if this were the easiest thing in the world.

“Where did you learn to play like this?” I asked after losing yet another point.

“High school,” she replied, brushing sand off her hands. “I played competitively. I needed to round out my education.”

“That’s so typical of you,”

The response came in the form of a volleyball spiked directly at my face.

After the game ended (mercifully, as she annihilated me with a score that I won’t bother recording here), we sat on the edge of the court, the simulated waves lapping at the sand nearby.

“You’re full of surprises, you know that?” I said, still catching my breath.

She shrugged, her expression unusually relaxed. “People make assumptions. I let them.”

“Like the assumption that you spend all your free time with a PADD in hand?”

“Exactly.”

There was a pause, a comfortable silence broken only by the sound of the waves. “I enjoyed being here,” I said quietly.

It could have been the sound of the waves or the wind, I don’t know. But I swear I heard her say “I enjoyed it too,”

Today felt like a turning point, though I doubt Ayesha would frame it that way. Seeing her outside of sickbay, away from the sharp edges of her professional persona, reminded me how much there is to her beneath the surface.

For all her sharpness, all her insistence on efficiency and control, she’s a person in ways she doesn’t often allow herself to be. And I find myself wanting to see more of that side of her—whatever she’s willing to share.

Personal Log: 26th April 2412

It occurred to me today that, for all the time I’ve spent watching Ayesha—studying her sharp edges, her rare moments of softness—I’ve never truly done something for her. She doesn’t expect gestures; in fact, I think she’d scoff at the idea. But there’s a part of me that wants to show her that she’s more than just a colleague to me, more than just the brilliant, infuriating doctor who demands respect with every word she speaks.

So, I decided to do something about it. I did something I never thought I’d have the courage to do. Not work-related, not practical—just something for her. It wasn’t easy to come up with an idea. Ayesha isn’t someone who indulges in frivolities, and anything too extravagant or demanding would’ve been met with her trademark sarcasm and a swift rejection.

So, I kept it simple. Something quiet, thoughtful, and entirely about her.

I reserved Holodeck 3 for the evening and created a program I hoped would appeal to the parts of her I’ve only just begun to understand: a small, peaceful lakeside retreat. The kind of place that invites quiet reflection, where the air is crisp, and the water reflects the stars like a mirror.

I wasn’t sure if she’d come, but I sent her a message anyway:

Holodeck 3, 1900 hours. No agenda. Just bring yourself.

She arrived exactly on time, her usual precision intact. Dressed casually—though still perfectly composed—she stepped into the holodeck with her usual air of quiet confidence.

“What’s this?” she asked, her gaze scanning the scene.

The program was simple: a serene lakeshore, framed by tall evergreens, with a small wooden dock that stretched into the water. The simulated evening sky was a canvas of stars, their light reflected in the still surface of the lake. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and the distant sound of crickets.

“Something different,” I replied, gesturing toward the dock.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression sceptical. “Are we supposed to be fishing?”

“No,” I said, grinning. “We’re supposed to be doing nothing.”

She hesitated for a moment, then walked past me toward the dock. Her footsteps were measured, her gaze lingering on the water as if she were trying to decide whether this was worth her time.

“You planned this?” she asked, finally turning to face me.

“I did,” I admitted, leaning against one of the wooden railings. “You needed it.”

She scoffed softly, though there was no real bite in it. “And you decided that for me?”

“Someone had to,” I replied, holding her gaze.

For a moment, I thought she might argue. Instead, she moved and sat down at the edge of the dock, crossing her legs. I followed suit, the wood creaking faintly beneath us as we settled into the quiet.

The silence was comfortable, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. Ayesha sat with her hands resting in her lap, her gaze fixed on the stars reflected in the water. It struck me how youthful and beautiful she looked. In her medical whites, she looked so mature, carrying herself with the air of a confident professional. But here, wearing casuals, in an unfamiliar environment, she looked younger than her years, with a quiet, lonely innocence. I had never seen anyone so attractive, so solitary. It took every fibre of my being to stay still, to not embrace her and hold her close.

“You know,” she said eventually, her voice softer than usual, carrying a melodic cadence that I had never heard before, “I don’t do well with… this.”

“With what?”

“With nothing,” she replied, gesturing vaguely toward the lake. “Stillness. Quiet. It feels… strange.”

“It’s good for you,” I said lightly.

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Don’t get used to it.”

But she didn’t move, didn’t leave. Instead, she stayed, her posture relaxing slightly as the moments stretched on.

“Did you do this for yourself, or for me?” she asked after a while.

“For you,” I said simply.

She tilted her head, studying me as if trying to find a flaw in my answer. “Why?”

“Because I thought you might like it,” I said, meeting her gaze.

“You should try thinking less, Enys, your brain can only do so much,” she said, but the way her lips twitched afterwards —a barely-there smile—felt like a victory.

We sat for what felt like a long time, but I had lost track of it all. I didn’t want it to end. But it did, painfully. As we stood at the edge of the dock, preparing to exit the program, she turned to me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

“This was… unexpected,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Good unexpected, or bad unexpected?” I asked.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Don’t ruin it, Enys.”

And then, to my surprise, she placed a hand lightly on my arm—a brief, deliberate touch that felt heavier than it should have.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Before I could respond, she stepped away, the moment as fleeting as it was significant.

Ayesha Mirazuni doesn’t need grand gestures or extravagant plans. She doesn’t want to be fussed over or made the center of attention. But tonight, in the quiet of that lakeside retreat, I saw her let go—just for a moment.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Personal Log: 19th May 2412

Today was one of those rare shifts in sickbay where everything went smoothly—no sudden crises, no catastrophic injuries, just the steady rhythm of routine cases and administrative tasks. It was the kind of day that would normally feel uneventful, but Ayesha managed to make it anything but.

I’ve learned by now that beneath her sharp edges and unrelenting professionalism lies a dry wit that, when it surfaces, can catch you entirely off guard. Today, it was on full display.

It started with a routine examination. A junior engineering officer had come in complaining of persistent headaches, likely from long hours spent repairing a faulty warp core stabiliser. Ayesha and I were both in the ward at the time, dividing up cases as we always do.

“You take this one,” I said, handing her the patient’s chart.

She glanced at it, then back at me. “Headaches, Enys? Is this what you’re relegating me to now?”

“Consider it a challenge,” I replied, grinning. “Maybe you’ll discover something groundbreaking.”

She gave me one of her trademark looks—a mix of scepticism and barely concealed amusement. “Fine,” she said, taking the chart. “But if it turns out to be dehydration, I’m blaming you for wasting my time.”

“Duly noted,” I said, leaning against the console as she approached the patient.

It didn’t take her long to confirm what we both suspected: dehydration and a lack of rest. She returned to the central station with the chart in hand, her expression smug.

“Dehydration,” she announced, setting the chart down in front of me.

“Impressive work, Dr Mirazuni,” I said, unable to resist the teasing tone. “Truly, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Her lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Careful, Enys. If you keep this up, I might start assigning you the Bolian gastrointestinals.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied.

As the day went on, the banter only escalated. At one point, while we were reorganising the supply cabinets, she made an offhand comment about how my labelling system was inefficient.

“In what universe does putting the bio-sutures next to the dermal regenerators make sense?” she asked, holding up a tray of neatly labelled supplies.

“In the universe where we’re trying to save time,” I said, crossing my arms.

She raised an eyebrow. “Time, or your tendency to avoid reorganising things properly?”

“You’re welcome to do it your way,” I said, gesturing to the cabinets. “But if my system works faster in an emergency, you owe me a drink," knowing full well that she abhorred drink.

“And if mine works better?” she countered, a challenge in her tone.

“Then I’ll admit defeat,” I said.

“Deal,” she replied, her eyes glinting with what I could only describe as competitive glee.

Later that afternoon, as we worked through the last of the day’s cases, something happened that I hadn’t anticipated: Ayesha laughed.

It was quiet, fleeting, but unmistakable. One of the junior medics had accidentally spilt a tray of instruments, sending a particularly loud clatter echoing through the ward.

“Well, that’s one way to announce your presence,” Ayesha quipped, her tone deadpan.

The medic flushed red, muttering an apology as he scrambled to clean up the mess.

Her comment earned a chuckle from the rest of the staff, but it was the quiet laugh that escaped her lips afterwards that stayed with me, a dreamy melodic sound that penetrated deep and resonated in my bones.

“You do know how to laugh,” I said as she joined me at the central station.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, though her expression was lighter than usual.

Today was a reminder that Ayesha Mirazuni is more than just the sharp, relentless professional she presents to the world. Beneath the precision and efficiency lies someone who, when the moment allows, can be playful, even funny.

It’s these moments that make me realise how much I enjoy working with her—not just because of her brilliance, but because of the person she is when she lets her guard down, even just a little.

Supplemental

I’ve lost bets before, but this one felt… different. Maybe it’s because I’d underestimated her, or maybe it’s because, deep down, I wanted her to win. Either way, today was a lesson in humility, wit, and—unexpectedly—connection.

The supply cabinet wager was simple enough: if her system proved more efficient during a busy shift, I’d owe her something of her choosing. If mine worked better, I’d get a rare admission of defeat from the sharpest mind in sickbay. I thought I’d rigged the odds in my favour.

I was wrong.

The perfect scenario presented itself when an engineering mishap sent a steady stream of crew members into sickbay with burns, sprains, and the occasional dislocated joint. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to keep us on our toes.

Ayesha, ever the strategist, didn’t miss a beat. She worked methodically, darting between patients and supplies with a precision that made me question my own confidence.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked as she effortlessly retrieved a cortical stimulator from a section I hadn’t even thought to check.

“Immensely,” she replied without looking up, her tone dry but undeniably smug.

“Don’t get cocky, Mirazuni. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

“Then you’d better pace yourself,” she said, glancing at me with a glint of amusement in her eyes.

About halfway through the shift, it became painfully clear that her system was, in fact, superior. Items I thought would be cumbersome to access were perfectly placed, reducing the time spent rummaging through drawers and shelves. Every time I hesitated, she was there with a pointed look or a quiet comment.

“Struggling, Enys?”

“Just adapting,” I said, trying to mask my growing frustration.

“To efficiency?” she quipped, moving past me to assist another patient.

By the end of the shift, I couldn’t deny it any longer. I’d been outmatched.

When the last patient had been discharged, Ayesha turned to me with the faintest hint of a smile. “Well?”

“Well,” I admitted, “your system works.”

“Say it again,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Your system works,” I repeated, rolling my eyes. “Congratulations.”

Her smile widened, though she tried to suppress it. “I’ll take that as a victory.”

“So,” I said, gesturing toward the now-pristine supply cabinets, “what do you want? Bragging rights? A plaque commemorating your achievement?”

She considered this for a moment, then said, “The rest of the shift in silence.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Silence?”

“You,” she said, pointing at me, “rest of shift, no talking, no witty comments, no unnecessary observations. Just silence.”

I laughed despite myself. “You’re really going to waste your win on that?”

“Yes,” she replied, her tone as sharp as ever.

Keeping quiet for the shift was harder than I’d anticipated. Ayesha, of course, seemed to relish it. She moved around sickbay with her usual efficiency, occasionally glancing in my direction to ensure I was holding up my end of the deal.

At the end of the shift, she walked over to me, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“Well,” I said, grinning, “I hope you enjoyed your peace and quiet.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “It was… tolerable.”

“Careful, Mirazuni,” I said, leaning closer. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she replied, though her lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

Losing the bet wasn’t the defeat I’d expected it to be. If anything, it was a reminder of why I admire Ayesha—not just for her brilliance, but for the way she challenges me, keeps me on my toes, and, in her own way, makes me better.

[Sam]

Personal Log: 3rd June 2412

I’ve never been one for big celebrations, least of all for my birthday. A quiet day, a nod from the crew, maybe a moment to reflect—that’s always been enough for me. I didn’t expect Ayesha Mirazuni to acknowledge the day at all, let alone surprise me.

But she did, in her own understated, deflective way.

The day began like any other. Sickbay was busy with routine cases—nothing urgent, nothing catastrophic. Ayesha was her usual self, sharp and efficient, her focus unwavering as she directed the team.

There was no mention of my birthday, no knowing glance or offhand comment, and I wasn’t surprised. Ayesha doesn’t do sentimentality. At least, that’s what I thought.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that I began to suspect something was up. I’d just returned to my workstation to find a neatly folded note placed on top of my console. It was written on actual paper—a rarity aboard a Starfleet vessel—and folded precisely.

Inside, in Ayesha’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words:

Room 14B is in dire need of your expertise. Urgent.

At first, I thought it was a joke, but there was no denying the curiosity it sparked. Room 14B wasn’t in sickbay; it was one of the small observation lounges near the lower decks, rarely used and often overlooked.

I glanced across the room at Ayesha, who was completely engrossed in a patient chart, her expression as neutral as ever. If she noticed me reading the note, she didn’t let on.

When I arrived at 14B, the room was empty save for a single tray sitting on the table. On it was a small, perfectly arranged cupcake, shaped in the form of a tribble, complete with a single, flickering holographic candle. Beside it was a padd with a familiar messa displayed on the screen:

One may wish to eat before it replicates itself. Efficiency matters.

It was an inside joke between us, a reference to a particularly chaotic day when I’d joked that if Ayesha were any more efficient, she’d find a way to make food replicate itself on demand.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

When I returned to sickbay, the cupcake thoroughly enjoyed, I found Ayesha exactly where I’d left her. She didn’t look up as I approached, her focus still on her work.

“Room 14B is no longer in dire need,” I said, leaning casually against the console.

“Good,” she replied without missing a beat. “I’d hate to think you were slacking.”

“Did you…” I began, but she cut me off with a raised hand.

“Don’t overthink it, Enys,"

I didn’t need to.

Personal Log: 12th June 2412

Ayesha Mirazuni has always been unshakable—or at least, that’s the image she projects. She operates with a level of control and precision that leaves no room for doubt, no sign of weakness. But today, for the first time, I saw that control falter.

It happened so quickly that, for a moment, I didn’t know how to react. But then instinct took over, and before I knew it, I was catching her as she collapsed.

The day had been routine—a steady stream of minor injuries and check-ups, nothing out of the ordinary. Ayesha and I were reviewing diagnostic results when it happened. She was mid-sentence, her tone as precise as ever, when she stopped abruptly, her hand flying to her temple.

“Ayesha?” I asked, stepping closer.

She waved me off, her expression tightening as she steadied herself against the console. “It’s fine,” she said sharply.

It wasn’t fine. Her knees buckled a moment later, and I barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Hypospray,” she muttered, her voice faint. “Top drawer.”

I guided her to a nearby chair, my heart racing as I reached for the indicated drawer. Inside was a small case containing preloaded hyposprays, each labelled with her name.

I glanced at her, half-expecting a sarcastic comment about my hesitation. Instead, her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow as she fought to regain control.

“Ayesha,” I said as I prepared the injection, “this isn’t exactly something you mention in passing.”

“Clearly,” she murmured, her lips twitching weakly, “you didn’t read my medical file.”

The effect was almost immediate. Her breathing steadied, the tension in her body easing as the medication took hold. She leaned back in the chair, her posture relaxing as she let out a slow, controlled exhale.

“Better?” I asked, crouching beside her.

“Better,” she replied, opening her eyes.

I sat back on my heels, crossing my arms as I studied her. “You’re going to explain this to me now.”

Her expression hardened slightly, though the usual sharpness in her tone was dulled by exhaustion. “There’s nothing to explain,” she said.

“You collapsed, Ayesha. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s manageable,” she replied, her voice steadying. “I’ve been dealing with it for my entire life.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Dealing with what, exactly?”

She sighed, glancing at the hypospray in my hand. “It’s a genetic anomaly,” she said finally. “A side effect of my Betazoid ancestry. Extended use of telepathy causes strain on my neural pathways. It’s inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient,” I repeated, my tone sceptical. “You just collapsed in the middle of sickbay. That’s a little more than inconvenient.”

“I take medication for it,” she said, brushing off my concern. “When I need it. Like today.”

“And what happens if you’re alone when it gets this bad?” I asked, keeping my tone even.

Her gaze flicked away, and for a moment, she didn’t answer.

“You’re not invincible,” I said, my voice softer now.

“I don’t need to be,” she replied, her tone sharpening again. “I just need to be functional.”

“That’s not enough,” I countered, standing to meet her gaze. “You can’t keep pushing yourself like this, Ayesha. Not without help.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. For a long moment, the silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words.

“You should’ve told me,” I said finally.

“You should’ve read the file,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone.

“You’re not a machine,” I said, crouching beside her again. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her gaze softened slightly, though her expression remained guarded. “I’ve managed this long,” she said quietly.

“And now you don’t have to,” I replied. “Let me help.”

After a long pause, she nodded—just once, barely perceptible. “Fine,” she said.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a victory.

Ayesha’s condition is a reminder that even the strongest among us have limits. For all her sharpness and control, she’s still vulnerable in ways she refuses to acknowledge.

And today, for the first time, I think she allowed herself to lean on me, even if just for a moment.

Personal Log: 20th June 2412

Today’s away mission reminded me why medicine aboard a starship often feels like a controlled storm—you never know when or where the winds will shift. The assignment to Varnis III was meant to be a straightforward medical and environmental survey. A Class-M planet with its rich biodiversity offered us the chance to catalogue potential medicinal compounds and assess local hazards for future Starfleet operations. Both Ayesha and I were part of the team, and as the senior officer, I took the lead.

Ayesha seemed her usual self—sharp, focused, and quietly assessing everything around her. She never complains, not outright, but I caught the subtle tension in her posture as we prepared for the beam-down. “You don’t enjoy these, do you?” I asked as we stepped onto the transporter pad.

“Medical emergencies I can prepare for,” she replied without looking at me. “Trekking through unknown terrain on the off chance we find a useful plant? Less so.”

Her dry delivery earned a chuckle from me, but I knew better than to push further.

The planet’s surface was stunning—a dense forest of towering trees with bark that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. The air was humid but breathable, carrying the faint aroma of earth and plant life. We split into small groups to cover more ground, each tasked with gathering samples and conducting scans. Ayesha was thorough, as always, her tricorder humming steadily as she catalogued potential compounds.

“Find anything interesting?” I asked, stepping over a fallen log to join her.

“Some of these plants have alkaloid properties,” she replied, holding up a leaf in her gloved hand. “Could be useful for pain management, provided they don’t also cause hallucinations.”

“That’s the optimism I’ve come to expect from you,” I said, grinning.

She glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’d be more worried if I were overly optimistic.”

“Fair point.”

The mission took a sudden turn when one of the junior officers accidentally triggered a buried device—likely remnants of an ancient civilization. The device emitted a low-frequency pulse that rattled the ground beneath our feet, destabilising the already soft terrain.

“Back to the clearing,” I ordered, raising my voice over the rumbling. “Now!”

Ayesha was closest to the junior officer who had triggered the device, and without hesitation, she moved to steady him as the ground began to shift. I reached her just as a fissure opened beneath their feet. She pushed the officer toward me, but before she could step back, the ground gave way, and she disappeared into the newly formed crevice.

For a moment, panic gripped me. I scrambled to the edge and found her about ten feet below, clinging to a jagged outcrop.

“Enys!” she snapped, her voice strained but sharp as ever. “Get the others out of here!”

“Not happening,” I replied, already securing a line from my pack.

“Don’t be stupid,” she barked. “You’ll destabilise it further!”

Ignoring her protests, I secured the harness and began lowering myself toward her. Her expression was a mixture of frustration and reluctant acceptance as I reached her. “You really don’t follow orders well, do you?” she muttered as I helped her into the harness.

“I follow the right ones,” I shot back.

The climb back to solid ground was tense, but we managed without further incident. Once we were both safe, I turned my attention to the junior officer, who was shaken but unharmed. Ayesha, of course, immediately began checking his vitals, brushing off her own scrapes and bruises as inconsequential.

“You should sit down,” I said, my tone firmer than usual.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “I’m fine.”

“Ayesha—”

“Don’t waste your energy worrying about me,” she interrupted, already scanning the officer’s leg. “Focus on him.”

I sighed, recognising the futility of arguing with her.

Back aboard the Blissful, I found her in sickbay, tending to a few minor injuries sustained during the mission. She didn’t look up as I approached, her focus entirely on the scanner in her hand.

“You know,” I began, leaning against the console, “most people would say thank you after being pulled out of a crevice.”

“Most people don’t get themselves into crevices in the first place,” she replied without missing a beat.

I smirked. “So, no gratitude then?”

She finally looked at me, her expression neutral but her eyes glinting with something I couldn’t quite place. “You didn’t follow protocol,” she said. “But you got the job done. Consider that my gratitude.”

“High praise,” I said, chuckling.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, turning back to her work.

Ayesha Mirazuni is many things—sharp, stubborn, and endlessly frustrating—but today, I saw another layer of her. For all her insistence on handling things herself, she trusts me enough to let me take charge when it counts, even if she’ll never admit it outright. And that trust? That means more than any words of thanks ever could.

Personal Log: 2nd July 2412

I’ve never been one for dramatic gestures or grand declarations. Medicine teaches you that the most meaningful moments often happen in quiet, unassuming ways—a pulse steadied, a breath drawn, a life saved without ceremony. But those quiet moments extend beyond sickbay. They exist in the spaces between words, in the silences shared with someone who matters. And today, I found one of those moments with Ayesha.

The day had been long, even by Starfleet standards. Sickbay was packed with patients from a botched holodeck program—a disaster of clumsily calibrated simulations leading to a wave of burns, fractures, and other minor injuries. It wasn’t the kind of chaos that threatened lives, but it was relentless enough to leave the entire team frayed. By the time we’d cleared the last patient, the exhaustion in the room was palpable.

I noticed her first as I was finishing a scan on a crewman with a sprained wrist. She was seated at one of the workstations, her shoulders slightly slumped and her head bowed as she stared at the console. Ayesha never shows weakness, never lets on when the weight of the day is pressing down on her. But the way she sat—still, tense—spoke volumes.

I dismissed the crewman quickly and made my way over to her, careful not to intrude too forcefully. “Hey,” I said softly, pulling up a chair beside her. “You good?”

She glanced at me, her expression neutral but her eyes betraying a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m fine,” she said, her tone clipped but not sharp.

“You keep saying that,” I replied, leaning back in my chair. “One of these days, I might start believing you.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped back to the console, her fingers hovering above the controls but not moving. The silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Ayesha isn’t someone you push; you wait for her to decide if she wants to let you in.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual. “It’s just been a long day,” she said simply.

I nodded, resisting the urge to make a quip. “I hear that,” I said instead.

We sat like that for a while, the sounds of sickbay fading into the background. She didn’t look at me again, but she didn’t move to leave either. Something about the moment felt fragile, like a balance that could tip too easily. And then, without fully thinking it through, I reached out and placed my hand over hers.

Her fingers tensed beneath mine, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she glanced down at our hands, her expression flickering with something I couldn’t quite name. For someone who avoids physical contact as fiercely as she does emotional vulnerability, the fact that she didn’t immediately recoil felt monumental.

We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, my hand resting lightly over hers. It wasn’t a grand gesture—not the kind of thing anyone else would’ve noticed or thought twice about—but it felt like the most significant thing I’d done all day.

Finally, she let out a quiet sigh, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “You’re persistent,” she said, her tone soft but carrying a faint edge of amusement.

“Someone has to be,” I replied, smiling faintly.

She didn’t argue, didn’t pull her hand away. And when she eventually turned back to the console, I let my hand linger for just a moment longer before withdrawing.

The shift continued as if nothing had happened, but the weight of that small, shared moment stayed with me. Ayesha returned to her work with her usual focus, and I knew better than to bring it up or ask what it meant. She’s not the type to dissect things like this, and I wasn’t about to ruin it by overthinking.

Even now, as I sit here recording this, I can still feel the warmth of her hand beneath mine. It wasn’t just about the physical contact; it was about trust, about the quiet understanding that sometimes words aren’t enough. Ayesha doesn’t let people in easily, but today, she let me take her hand, and she didn’t pull away. That alone feels monumental.

Some connections don’t need words. Today, Ayesha and I shared one of those moments—a quiet gesture that said more than any conversation could. I don’t know what it means or where it leads, but for now, I’m content to let it be.

Personal Log: 5th July 2412

Tension always seems to settle over a ship before an operation. It’s not spoken aloud, but you can feel it in the way people move through the corridors, their expressions tight, their steps a little quicker. Today was no different. Starfleet Command had sent word of an imminent Klingon assault near the Zavas system. The USS Blissful had been assigned to support the Federation fleet in the sector, providing medical aid and secondary tactical support.

We knew what was coming. Klingons rarely waste time on posturing; when they attack, it’s decisive and relentless. And though we’ve faced engagements before, there was something heavier about this mission. The tactical officers had spoken of the strength of the Klingon forces in the area—more than enough to overwhelm our defences if things went wrong.

The CMO, Dr Nera Velos, called the medical team to the briefing room this morning to prepare us for what lay ahead. Ayesha and I took our places among the other officers, the room unusually quiet as we waited for her to begin.

Dr Velos was a formidable presence, her voice steady as she addressed the team. “We’ve been briefed on the situation near the Zavas system. The Klingon fleet is expected to strike within the next 72 hours. As Starfleet Intelligence indicates that Klingon forces have increasingly been using boarding tactics to disable critical systems and create chaos, our role will be twofold; to provide emergency medical support to the Blissful’s crew during combat and to prepare for the possibility of enemy boarders.”

The tension in the room grew palpable at her words. Klingon boarders weren’t just a threat to the ship’s systems—they were brutal and highly trained fighters, relentless in their objectives. We’d obviously been trained in phaser combat, but to use that training, taking lives instead of saving them, doctors up against warriors…

Velos continued, her expression sharp. “Medical may not be a tactical department, but we will not be caught off guard. If boarders breach this section, it will be our job to hold this area until security regains control. I’m not asking you to be heroes, but I am asking you to be prepared. The safety of our patients and this ship depends on it.”

Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on each of us. “We’ll be conducting triage in the event of mass casualties. Dr Enys, Dr Mirazuni, you’ll be leading the secondary surgical teams. Both of you will coordinate with security if the situation escalates.”

Ayesha sat beside me, her posture as composed as ever. She didn’t react outwardly to the added responsibility, but I could see the wheels turning in her mind. She thrives in chaos, but this kind of chaos—combat and medical emergencies entwined—was different.

Velos shifted to the tactical aspect of our preparations. “Every member of the medical team will be issued a Type-2 phaser. If boarders reach sickbay, your priority is to protect the patients and staff. I’ll make this clear: this is not an invitation to play hero. You defend when you must and retreat when you can. Understood?”

A series of nods followed, though the unease in the room was palpable.

Ayesha raised her hand, her tone as calm and clipped as always when Velos called on her. “Do we have projections on where boarders are likely to breach? I’d rather not be improvising when the time comes.”

Velos nodded, her respect for Ayesha’s thoroughness clear. “Decks 7 through 9 are the most likely targets, including engineering and sickbay. Tactical will set up temporary barricades, but you’re right—we’ll need contingency plans. I want you and Dr Enys to coordinate with security and map out defensive positions for sickbay.”

As Velos continued outlining the protocol, I glanced at Ayesha. Her face was impassive, her focus absolute, but there was an intensity in her gaze that I’d come to recognise. She was already planning, anticipating the worst-case scenario. It was one of the things I admired most about her—her ability to stay steady when the storm loomed.

After the briefing, as the team began to disperse, Ayesha lingered by the console, creating maps and demanding clarity from security. I walked over, leaning lightly against the edge of the console. “You’re already strategising, aren’t you?”

She didn’t look up, her slender fingers scrolling through the map. “If you wait until the attack starts to plan, you’ve already lost.”

“Practical as ever,” I said with a faint smile.

She glanced at me then, her expression sharp but not unkind. “This won’t be a drill, Enys. You’d better be ready.”

Her words hung in the air as she turned back to the console, her focus unyielding. For all her sharpness, there was something reassuring in her presence—a steadying force in the face of what was to come.

Briefings like this are a stark reminder of what it means to serve during wartime. The lines between doctor and defender blur, forcing us to adapt in ways we never imagined. Ayesha’s ability to stay composed, to prepare for the worst with such clarity, is something I find myself leaning on more and more. She may not be a soldier, but in moments like these, she’s every bit the leader this team needs.

Personal Log: 8th July 2412

The first round of Klingon fire hit the ship like a thunderclap. Sickbay shook violently, the overhead lights flickering as if deciding whether or not to stay on. Equipment rattled against the walls, and I had to steady myself against a console to keep from losing my footing. Around me, the medical staff moved quickly to secure supplies and stabilise the patients already under our care.

“Report!” I called out, my voice cutting through the chaos.

Ayesha was already at the primary console, her fingers moving deftly over the controls. “Shields look like they’re holding at sixty-three percent,” she said, her voice sharp but calm. “Secondary power relays are fluctuating. Bio-support systems are stable for now.”

Another impact rocked the ship, this one harder than the last. A ceiling panel dislodged, crashing to the floor just metres from the surgical suite. A nurse flinched but kept working, her focus unwavering despite the chaos around her.

The comm system crackled to life, the Tactical Officer’s voice tense but controlled. “Direct hits to decks seven and eight. Hull breaches reported. Fire teams are en route.”

Ayesha’s gaze flicked to me briefly, and I could see the calculation behind her eyes. “They’re testing our defences,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Probing for weaknesses.”

The next impact came less than a minute later. This one sent a shower of sparks cascading from an overhead conduit, and I could feel the heat of it on my face as I moved to shield a nearby nurse. The smell of burnt circuitry filled the air, acrid and sharp, as the emergency power kicked in.

Ayesha didn’t flinch, her attention fixed on the console. “Structural integrity holding, but only just,” she said. “We’ve lost power to the secondary replicators.”

“We can manage without them,” I replied, though the strain in my voice betrayed my unease.

She nodded, her focus unbroken. “Environmental controls are still stable. For now.”

The comms came alive again, this time with the Captain’s voice. “All hands, brace for incoming fire. Tactical teams to your positions.”

The next volley hit us with a force that left no part of the ship untouched. Sickbay lurched violently, sending a cart of surgical instruments skidding across the floor. One of the biobeds tilted dangerously, and a junior medic rushed to stabilise the patient strapped to it.

“Status!” I shouted, gripping the edge of the nearest console to keep my balance.

Ayesha didn’t even look up. “Deck nine reporting critical damage. Fire suppression systems engaged. Shields at thirty-eight percent.”

The Tactical Officer’s voice cut through the room again. “Klingon forces are shifting their fire to engineering. Recommend all non-essential personnel evacuate compromised decks.”

Ayesha’s gaze snapped to mine. “If they breach engineering, we lose propulsion.”

I nodded, already anticipating the ripple effects that would cascade through the ship. “We hold here,” I said firmly. “Sickbay stays operational no matter what.”

She gave a curt nod, her focus returning to the console.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of noise and movement. Reports of injuries began filtering in from across the ship—burns, concussions, and a handful of broken bones as crew members were thrown against bulkheads by the force of the impacts.

The first casualties arrived soon after, carried in by a mix of security officers and damage control teams. Ayesha moved to meet them, her voice calm and commanding as she directed the triage effort. “Critical cases to the surgical suite. Everyone else, stabilise and move them out. We need to keep the main ward clear.”

Her presence was a stabilising force, her sharpness cutting through the chaos with a clarity that brought order to the room. I took position beside her, working quickly to assess and treat the incoming patients.

The comm crackled again, and this time the Tactical Officer’s voice was heavier with urgency. “Klingon boarding parties detected. Multiple breaches reported on decks eight and nine.”

A hush fell over the room, the weight of those words settling over us like a tangible force.

Ayesha glanced at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes steady. “They’ll come here,” she said quietly.

I nodded, my grip tightening on the edge of the console. “Then we’ll be ready.”

This was a reminder of how fragile a starship truly is. The Blissful was built for exploration and support, not prolonged combat, and every impact left us feeling the weight of that reality.

But even in the midst of chaos, there was a sense of resolve in sickbay. Ayesha’s ability to focus, to take charge without hesitation, was a steadying force for all of us. The battle wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but I knew this: we’d hold the line, no matter what comes next.

Supplemental 1

The ship rocked violently as another disruptor volley struck the port side. Sickbay was holding together, but only just. The lights flickered, and the low hum of emergency power filled the room, a constant reminder of the strain the ship was under. The earlier barrage had left its mark—systems were unstable, and the comms were overloaded with damage reports and casualty calls from across the ship.

The announcement came suddenly, cutting through the noise with stark clarity. “Klingon boarding parties detected. Multiple breaches on decks eight and nine.”

I didn’t wait for further confirmation. “All right, listen up!” I barked, stepping to the centre of the room. My voice carried over the rising tension, cutting through the chatter. “Barricade the entrances and secure the patients. Non-essential personnel to the secondary medbay. Everyone else, we hold this line.”

Ayesha was already moving, her focus sharp as she motioned for two junior officers to follow her. “You heard him,” she said, her tone crisp and commanding. “Get those biobeds stabilised and clear the centre aisle. We need as much space as possible for triage.”

The room snapped into action. Medics rushed to secure equipment, nurses double-checked supply carts, and the hum of bio-scanners punctuated the tension in the air. Ayesha moved with her usual precision, her presence a steadying force as she relayed my orders to the team.

“Phasers,” I called, moving to the emergency locker. I pulled out a Type-2 and tossed one to her. She caught it without hesitation, checking the charge with a practised hand.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, her gaze steady.

“Take the secondary entrance,” I said. “They’ll likely come through both access points. I’ll hold the main.”

She nodded, already moving to position. “Williams, Portas—cover the rear,” she instructed two nearby nurses, gesturing them into position near the triage area. “Keep those patients shielded. No one gets past you.”

The first sign of the boarders came as a muffled explosion down the corridor. The vibrations rippled through the deck, followed by the heavy thud of boots and the unmistakable guttural commands of Klingon warriors.

“Brace yourselves,” I called out, my phaser raised.

The first charge hit the main entrance, the barricades holding but groaning under the strain. The second blast breached them entirely, sending debris scattering across the floor. The first Klingon warrior stormed in, his disruptor raised, but my shot dropped him before he could take another step.

“Hold your positions!” I shouted, stepping forward to block the opening.

Ayesha’s voice rang out from the other side of the room, steady and sharp. “Focus fire! Don’t let them split the line!”

The next wave of Klingons pushed through, their disruptors firing in wild arcs. Sparks flew as the walls and equipment absorbed the brunt of the assault, but our return fire was just as fierce. Ayesha moved like a force of nature, her phaser shots precise and her commands clear.

“Reynolds, cover the left flank!” she ordered, taking a position behind an overturned medical cart. She fired at a Klingon who had made it past the first line, dropping him with a clean shot to the chest.

The fight for the main ward was brutal. One of the boarders managed to breach the secondary entrance, and the sound of disruptor fire filled the air behind me. I turned in time to see Ayesha take charge, her phaser taking down the lead Klingon before he could get within striking distance of the biobeds.

“Secondary entrance secure!” she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos.

I nodded, refocusing on the main breach. Another Klingon charged through, his disruptor aimed directly at me. I fired without hesitation, the blast sending him sprawling backwards.

“Status!” I shouted over the noise.

Ayesha’s reply was immediate. “No injuries on our side. Patients are stable.”

“Good,” I said, moving to reposition. “Keep it that way.”

The next wave hit harder, their disruptors tearing through the hastly repaired barricades and sending debris flying across the room. One of the nurses stumbled, her face pale with fear, but Ayesha was there in an instant.

“Get back to your station,” she said firmly, steadying the nurse with a hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing fine. Stay focused.”

The nurse nodded, her grip on her scanner tightening as she returned to her position.

I fired at another Klingon, catching him in the side and sending him crashing into a supply cart. “Ayesha, cover the rear!” I called out, repositioning to hold the main entrance.

“On it,” she replied, moving to reinforce the line near the patients. Her calm under pressure was remarkable, her presence a rallying point for the team.

By the time the disruptor fire began to wane, the room was filled with the acrid smell of burnt circuitry and the sharp tang of ozone. The last Klingon fell to a combined volley from Ayesha and me, his disruptor clattering to the floor as he collapsed.

“Clear!” I called out, lowering my phaser.

Ayesha stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the room as she assessed the damage. “No breaches in the patient area,” she reported, her voice steady despite the tension. “We’re secure for now.”

I nodded, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. “Good work, everyone. Let’s regroup and stabilise the injured. Security will sweep the area for stragglers.”

The Klingons came at us with the ferocity they’re known for, but we held. Not just because of preparation, but because the team came together in a way that felt almost instinctive. Despite the friction between Ayesha and everyone else, when it came down to it, she was a team player and a natural leader, far more than I was.

This was only the first wave, and I know more will come. But today, we proved that even in the chaos of battle, we can stand strong.

Supplemental 2

The Klingons were relentless. Even as the smoke from the initial firefight began to settle, we could hear them regrouping in the corridors beyond. Sickbay was holding steady, only just, scorch marks etched deep into the duranium plating. The acrid smell of burned circuits and discharged weapons hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of ozone from overloaded equipment.

Ayesha and I regrouped at the centre of the room, our uniforms streaked with soot and the marks of near misses. “We won’t hold if they bring reinforcements,” she said, her tone even but urgent.

“They’ll focus on splitting our lines,” I replied. “We keep the patients secured, and we don’t let them breach the secondary ward.”

Her nod was sharp, her phaser gripped tightly in her hand. “I’ll cover the east corridor,” she said. “Reynolds and Portas, with me. We’ll push them back before they get too close.”

“Good,” I said, glancing toward the main entrance. “I’ll hold here. Keep comms open—if they breach engineering, we’ll be next.”

The second wave came moments later, their disruptors tearing through the remaining barricades with precision. They were more organised this time, their fire coordinated to force us into defensive positions. I fired at the first Klingon through the breach, my shot catching him in the chest. Ayesha’s voice crackled over the comms as she directed her team.

“Hold the flank,” she ordered. “Don’t let them circle around. Focus fire!”

From my position, I could see her and her team holding the east corridor, their phaser shots lighting up the narrow space with bright bursts. A Klingon warrior broke through their line, charging toward the rear ward, but Ayesha was faster. She stepped forward, her shot dropping him mid-stride.

“Enys, they’re shifting left!” she called out, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Got it,” I replied, repositioning to cover the exposed flank.

The fight stretched on, each minute feeling longer than the last. After eternity had passed, I heard the disruptor fire begin to wane, our defence bolstered by the arriving security team, and not a moment too soon.

“Clear,” I called out, lowering my phaser.

Ayesha stepped into the main ward, her eyes scanning the room. “Damage?”

“Minimal,” I said. “Patients are stable. No injuries on our side.” I looked around; the worn-out medical crew sat slumped against the walls and consoles, exhaustion radiating from them.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension in her posture remained. “We’ve bought ourselves time, but they’ll regroup. We were lucky the security team arrived.”

Before I could reply, the comm crackled to life. “Medical teams to Deck 9. Multiple injuries reported in engineering. Fire suppression systems failing.”

The words sent a collective groan through the medics. Despite this, they stumbled to their feet, grit and determination etched onto their battered faces. Ayesha turned to me, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “We need to go.”

“I’ll go,” I said, grabbing a medkit and slinging it over my shoulder. “The rest of you, take a moment to breathe,”

Ayesha grabbed her own kit, her movements precise despite the urgency. “I’m coming with you, Enys.” I knew it was pointless to argue.

We sprinted through the corridors, the sound of distant disruptor fire growing louder with each step. The deck was dimly lit, emergency lighting casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. The air was heavy with smoke, and the faint metallic tang of burning conduits stung the back of my throat. We stepped over bodies, Klingon and Starfleet alike, not daring to look at their faces for fear of seeing a friend.

When we reached engineering, the scene was chaos. The main console was ablaze, flames licking at the edges of the room despite the fire suppression systems’ best efforts. Engineers scrambled to stabilise the power grid, their faces streaked with soot and sweat. If it was bad in medical, it was worse here.

The injured were scattered across the floor, their uniforms torn and bloodied. Some groaned softly, others lay eerily still. A Klingon disruptor lay discarded near the far wall, its emitter still glowing faintly from recent use.

“Split up,” I said, already moving toward the nearest patient. “Triage and stabilise. Priority is critical cases.”

Ayesha nodded, dropping to her knees beside a young ensign with a deep disruptor burn across his chest. Her hands moved with practised precision, her voice calm but firm as she directed a nearby crewman to assist. “Cortical stimulator, now. Keep his airway clear. I need a stabiliser pack for the burn.”

I worked on a lieutenant with a severe leg injury, her femur shattered by a falling beam. “You’re going to be fine,” I said, injecting her with a pain suppressant before immobilising the limb. Her breathing steadied as the medication took effect, her panic giving way to a faint nod of acknowledgement, her hand gripping tightly to my own.

Across the room, Ayesha’s voice carried over the chaos. “Enys, I need backup here!”

I looked up to see her crouched over a commander with severe plasma burns, the edges of his uniform melted into his skin. I grabbed my medkit and moved to her side, pulling out the dermal regenerator.

“Vitals are weak,” she said, her tone clipped. “If we don’t stabilise his neural pathways, he’s not going to make it.”

“I’ve got it,” I replied, working quickly to apply a neural stimulator. Together, we stabilised him, the faint beeping of his vital monitor a welcome sound amidst the chaos.

By the time we finished, the fire suppression systems had finally regained control, the flames reduced to smouldering embers. The remaining engineers worked to restore power, their movements deliberate despite the exhaustion etched into their faces.

Ayesha stood, her uniform streaked with ash and blood. She glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the faces of the injured. “We need to move them to sickbay,” she said.

I nodded, already signalling the transporters.

Supplemental 3

The corridors were eerily quiet as we returned to sickbay. The faint hum of the ship’s emergency power systems was the only sound, a stark contrast to the chaos we’d just left behind in engineering. Ayesha walked beside me, her medkit slung over one shoulder, her uniform streaked with soot and blood. Neither of us spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was heavy, laden with unspoken exhaustion and the weight of what we’d just endured.

When we reached sickbay, the room was calmer than I’d expected. The barricades had been remade, and the staff moved with a tired but firm effeciency, tending to the patients who’d been stabilised earlier. The lingering smell of burnt circuitry still hung in the air, but the tension had ebbed, replaced by the kind of focused determination that only comes after thoughts had been worn away and training kicked in.

Ayesha paused near one of the biobeds, her gaze flicking over the room as if to reassure herself that everything was under control. I watched as she placed her medkit on the nearest table, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“You did good out there,” I said softly, stepping closer.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “We’re not done yet,” she replied, her tone clipped but not unkind.

“No,” I agreed, leaning against the edge of the table. “But we bought ourselves time. That counts for something.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke, our eyes locked together. The sounds of the medics working, the soft hum of the biobeds, and the faint buzz of the overhead lights filled the silence.

Ayesha finally sighed, running a hand through her hair, streaking it with soot. “It’s always like this,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Controlled chaos,” she said, her voice quiet. “You put everything into the crisis at hand, and all you get is a few moments before it starts again.”

I nodded, understanding all too well what she meant. “But those moments matter,” I said. “Even if they’re small.”

She didn’t reply immediately, her gaze around the room again. When she finally looked at me, there was something softer in her expression, something I wasn’t used to seeing.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” she asked.

“I have to,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

We stood there for a while, the noise of the sickbay fading into the background. Then, to my surprise, she reached out, her hand curling around mine. It was neither the time nor the place, but somehow, that made it more right.

“Ayesha—”

“Don’t,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, and I could feel her hand squeeze mine tightly. “Just… don’t.”

I nodded, understanding that whatever she was feeling, she wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Five minutes,” she said finally, glancing at the clock on the wall. “That’s all the time we’ll have before the next report comes in.”

“Then we’ll make it count,” I replied, offering a faint smile.

For those few minutes, we let the chaos wait, hand in hand.

Supplemental 4

The ship’s klaxons screamed again, breaking the fragile stillness of sickbay. The first breach had been contained, and we’d barely had time to catch our breath before the Tactical Officer’s voice came through the comms. “All hands, prepare for renewed boarding action. Multiple teams detected. Decks eight, nine, and ten compromised.”

The urgency in her tone left no doubt: this was the big push. The Klingons weren’t retreating—they were coming to finish the job.

I glanced at Ayesha, who was already strapping on her medkit and checking her phaser’s charge. Her face was set, her movements precise, but there was a weight in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. She caught my gaze and gave a short nod. “Let’s go.”

The first wave hit us harder than before, the Klingons coming in force. Ayesha and I stood our ground, leading the defence as the rest of the medical team focused on evacuating patients to the secondary ward.

“Focus fire on the left flank!” I shouted, returning fire as another Klingon warrior stormed through the breach. My shot took him down mid-stride, but more were already flooding into the corridor.

“They’re targeting the central ward!” Ayesha called, her voice sharp over the chaos. “Portas, Reynolds—hold the secondary entrance!”

The battle was chaotic, the air thick with the acrid smell of disruptor blasts and burning equipment. Ayesha moved like a force of nature, her phaser cutting through the smoke as she directed the defence with an authority that left no room for hesitation.

In the break in the firefight, we all dropped our weapons to focus on evacuating the patients. As we were doing so, a security officer stumbled into sickbay, carrying a severely injured crewman. The man’s uniform was charred, his chest riddled with disruptor burns that had exposed raw muscle beneath. His breathing was laboured, his eyes barely open. “Help him!” the security officer shouted, his voice desperate as he laid the man on a biobed.

Ayesha was at his side in an instant, her tricorder scanning the extent of the injuries. Her face remained impassive as the readings scrolled across the screen, but I saw the faint tightening of her jaw.

“He’s too far gone,” she said, her tone flat but firm. “We can’t save him.”

I froze for a moment, the weight of her words settling over me like a physical blow.

“Ayesha, we can stabilise him—”

“No, we can’t,” she interrupted, her voice colder now. “The disruptor burns have destroyed half his pulmonary system, and his neural pathways are already failing. If we divert resources to him, we lose the others.”

Her words were clinical, but there was an edge beneath them that betrayed the difficulty of the decision.

“We can try,” I insisted, stepping closer. “We owe him that much.”

Ayesha turned to face me, her eyes sharp and unwavering. “We owe the rest of them more,” she said quietly. “I’m not letting you waste time on a lost cause when we have others who can be saved.”

The moment hung heavy between us, the noise of the battle fading into the background as we locked eyes. I wanted to argue, to push back against her cold logic, but the conviction in her gaze stopped me.

“Do what you have to,” I said finally, my voice tight, ignoring the desperate screams of the security officer.

Ayesha nodded, turning back to the biobed. “Portas, clear this ward. Move the rest of the critical cases to the secondary unit.” Her voice was steady, her orders precise.

The injured man’s breathing grew shallower, the faint beeping of the biobed slowing with each passing second. Ayesha placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, her expression softening for just a moment. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, barely audible.

The fight dragged on, each wave more relentless than the last. We held the line, but it came at a cost. By the time the last Klingon fell, the room was a mess of overturned equipment and bloodstained floors.

Ayesha stood near the centre of the ward, her phaser lowered but her posture still tense. She glanced around the room, taking in the damage and the faces of the wounded. When her eyes met mine, there was a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place—regret, perhaps, or exhaustion.

“We did what we had to,” she said quietly, as if trying to convince herself as much as me.

Ayesha’s decision not to treat the crewman felt like a betrayal in the moment, but now, as I sit here and replay the events in my mind, I realise she was right. It doesn’t make it easier, but it does make it necessary.

Supplemental 5

The battle was over, but the damage it left behind was overwhelming. Sickbay, once a haven of order and calm amidst the chaos of the Blissful, now resembled a warzone. Equipment lay scattered across the floor, scorch marks marred the walls, and the acrid smell of burnt circuitry lingered in the air. The biobeds were full, the injured resting uneasily beneath flickering lights.

Ayesha and I stood in the centre of the room, surveying the wreckage. She was silent, her uniform streaked with soot and blood, her phaser rifle discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. For all her composure during the attack, there was a weariness in her eyes now, a heaviness that I recognised but didn’t dare comment on.

“We’ve stabilised the last of them,” I said, breaking the silence. “Triage teams report no criticals left to move.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed on a shattered console. “Good.” Her voice was flat, devoid of the sharpness that usually coloured her words.

The medics and nurses moved around us, their exhaustion clear in their every step. Portas was repairing a cart that had been overturned during the firefight, while Reynolds carefully restocked a supply cabinet that had been nearly destroyed. Every movement felt slower now, the adrenaline that had carried us through the fight replaced by sheer determination to restore some semblance of normalcy.

Ayesha crossed the room to a cluster of biobeds, checking the vitals of the patients with a methodical precision that betrayed none of her fatigue. I watched as she paused by the bed of the crewman she had refused to treat earlier. He was gone now, his body covered with a simple sheet, waiting to be transferred to the morgue. The security officer who had brought him in just sat there, like a statue, as if by copying the crewman’s stillness, he too could reach him again. For a moment, she stood there, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed. It was a rare gesture, one that spoke more than words ever could.

I walked over, stopping just beside her. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said softly.

She didn’t look at me, her eyes still fixed on the bed. “I made the call,” she replied, her tone as even as ever.

“You made the right one,” I said, though the words felt heavy in my throat. “We saved everyone we could.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the bedframe before she let go, stepping back and turning to face me. “Right doesn’t mean easy, Enys.”

“No,” I agreed, meeting her gaze. “It doesn’t.”

For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between us. Then she straightened, the sharpness returning to her expression. “There’s still work to do,” she said, her voice firmer now.

The next few hours were a blur of repairs and recovery. Ayesha directed the team with her usual efficiency, her focus never wavering. Equipment was salvaged and repaired, the remaining patients stabilised, and the room slowly began to resemble a functioning sickbay once more.

At one point, I found her at the primary console, running diagnostics on the bio-support systems. “You need to take a break,” I said, leaning against the console beside her.

She didn’t look up. “We don’t have time for breaks.”

“We’ve got it under control,” I said. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Her hands stilled for a moment, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she closed the diagnostic program and turned to face me. “When this is over,” she said quietly, “we’ll have time to think about it. Not before.”

It wasn’t an admission, but it was close enough.

The attack was a reminder of the cost of what we do—not just in lives, but in the toll it takes on all of us.

Supplemental 6

The debriefing felt like a final test, the last hurdle after a marathon of chaos and exhaustion. The room was packed with department heads and key officers, each waiting to deliver their account of the attack and its aftermath. I’d been asked to speak for medical, a task that seemed simple in theory but felt insurmountable in the face of everything we’d endured.

The captain’s expression was grave but composed, her voice calm as she began.

“We’ve endured a significant assault,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of the ship’s survival. “Every department played a critical role in ensuring we’re still here. Now, I need full reports. Let’s begin with tactical.”

I sat at the far end of the table, Ayesha beside me, her posture as composed as ever. Her uniform was immaculate, her face impassive. If she was feeling the strain of what we’d endured, she wasn’t showing it.

The reports started with tactical, outlining the damage inflicted by the Klingon assault. Thirty-seven casualties, eight dead, and multiple hull breaches on decks eight and nine. The numbers landed heavily, each one a stark reminder of the cost of survival.

Engineering followed, detailing the plasma fires, power failures, and structural damage that had threatened to cripple the ship. Operations spoke of evacuations, rerouted power grids, and the strain of coordinating reinforcements in the midst of chaos.

When the captain turned to medical, she looked directly at me. “Doctor Enys,” she said, her tone softer but no less expectant.

I stood, my back straight despite the weight of the report I was about to deliver. Ayesha’s presence beside me was steadying, though she gave no outward indication of her thoughts.

“During the attack, medical treated over sixty patients,” I began, my voice clear but low. “Eighteen of those were critical cases. All were stabilised and transferred to the secondary medbay under fire. We lost two patients—one from disruptor burns too extensive to treat, the other from catastrophic plasma exposure in engineering.”

The words came easily, but they felt hollow as they left my mouth. Numbers and summaries never truly capture the reality of what we endured. The words hung in the air, cold and clinical, but every number carried a name, a face. I felt them all pressing against me as I spoke.

Captain Riegar nodded solemnly. “Were there any issues with resource allocation or staff availability?”

Ayesha’s voice cut through the room before I could respond. “No, Captain,” she said, her tone even. “Every member of the medical team performed their duties with precision and unwavering resolve. Their actions saved lives, and they upheld the highest standards of Starfleet Medical.”

Her words were sharp, final, leaving no room for debate.

The captain nodded, her expression grave but approving. “Noted, Doctors. Please extend my gratitude to your team.”

“Yes, Captain,” I replied, sitting down again.

As the reports continued, my focus began to drift. I thought of the patients we’d lost, the faces of those we’d treated, and the impossible choices we’d been forced to make. The image of the injured crewman Ayesha had chosen not to treat lingered in my mind, though I understood why she’d made the call.

When the meeting finally adjourned, officers filed out of the room quickly, eager to return to their duties or simply escape the weight of the conversation. I stayed behind, my hands resting on the table as I stared at the now-empty chair across from me.

“You did well,” Ayesha’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up to see her standing beside me, her hands clasped lightly behind her back. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a faint softness in her eyes that was hard to ignore.

“Did I?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

She nodded once, her tone firm. “You delivered the report clearly, with conviction. The captain needed to hear it framed that way. We needed it framed that way.”

I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “It doesn’t feel like enough. Two losses, Ayesha. That’s still two too many.”

Her gaze sharpened, and she stepped closer, her voice lowering but carrying an edge of urgency. “You’re thinking like a doctor, not a leader,” she said. “Two losses out of sixty. That’s not failure. That’s survival.”

I met her eyes, searching for something in her expression. “And what about the ones we couldn’t save? The decisions we made? How long did you spend thinking about those who died on the colony?”

“On the colony, people died because we weren’t fast enough to save them. Here, people died because we had to make choices. They were the right decisions,” she replied, her tone softening slightly. “Even the hard ones. Especially the hard ones.”

Her words carried weight, but it was her next statement that caught me off guard. “You did more than lead, Enys. You gave this team what they needed to endure. That’s not something everyone can do.”

I blinked, surprised by the rare praise. “Thank you,” I said, my voice almost a whisper.

She straightened, her composure slipping back into place. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, her tone sharper now but not unkind. “There’s still work to do.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate. But somehow, I felt as if she had made a mistake. That she was lying to protect my feelings. Because it wasn’t my leadership that had allowed us to endure… it was hers.

**

• Personnel Casualties:

• List item

• List item

**

Fatalities: 10

• 4 security personnel killed during boarding action
• 2 engineers killed in plasma fire in engineering
• 2 tactical officers killed during disruptor strike on Deck 8
• 1 crewman from medical succumbing to disruptor wounds sustained in combat
• 1 science officer killed in Deck 7 hull breach

Injured: 49

18 critical injuries (stabilised and undergoing long-term recovery)

• 7 disruptor wounds
• 5 plasma burns
• 6 blunt trauma injuries from structural collapses

31 minor-to-moderate injuries

• Fractures, contusions, minor burns

Personal Log: 15th July 2412

The days after the Klingon assault passed in a blur of repairs, recovery, and reflection. Slowly, the ship began to feel like itself again—though the scars of the battle lingered, both on the hull and in the hearts of those who had endured it. Sickbay was no exception. The chaos had been replaced by a steady hum of routine, the sort of rhythm we rely on to steady ourselves after the storm.

I found myself watching Ayesha more than usual these past few days. She was back to her usual self, her sharpness cutting through every moment with the kind of clarity that kept the rest of us grounded. But there was something different about her, too—a quietness that lingered at the edges of her words, as if the weight of everything we’d been through was still pressing on her shoulders.

It wasn’t that she’d faltered during the attack. Quite the opposite. She’d been relentless, leading with a precision and decisiveness that had saved countless lives. But in the aftermath, in the stillness that followed, I could see the toll it had taken. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, worrying about her on her behalf.

It started as a routine day. Sickbay was quiet, the biobeds nearly empty for the first time in what felt like weeks. The staff moved with the kind of calm efficiency that comes from having just enough to do without being overwhelmed. Ayesha was at her workstation, her focus fixed on a set of diagnostic scans she’d been reviewing for hours.

I approached quietly, not wanting to disturb her but unable to resist the pull of her presence. “Still working on those scans?” I asked, leaning against the edge of her desk.

She didn’t look up. “There’s always more to analyse,” she replied, her tone clipped but not unkind.

“You’ve been staring at those for hours,” I said, crossing my arms. “Even you need a break eventually.”

She glanced at me then, her expression as unreadable as ever. “If you’re here to lecture me about self-care, don’t bother. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” I asked, my voice softer now.

Her gaze lingered on me for a moment before she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “It’s routine,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Routine doesn’t mean easy,” I replied.

She didn’t argue, but the tension in her posture didn’t ease either.

The silence between us stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. I could feel the weight of everything unspoken, the space between us charged with something I couldn’t quite name.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said during the debriefing,” I said finally.

She raised an eyebrow. “What part?”

“About the team,” I said. “About how they followed because they trusted me.”

Her expression softened slightly, though her voice remained steady. “They did. And they should have.”

The simplicity of her words caught me off guard, the quiet conviction in them cutting through the noise in my mind. “You’re not exactly generous with praise,” I said, smiling faintly. “Why me?”

She tilted her head, studying me in that way she does, as if she were dissecting every word I’d ever spoken. “Because it’s true,” she said simply.

I don’t know what possessed me to do it. Maybe it was the exhaustion of the past week, the constant weight of what we’d been through together. Maybe it was the way she looked at me in that moment, her sharpness softened just enough to let me see the person beneath it all.

Or maybe it was because I couldn’t hold it back any longer.

I stepped closer, my heart pounding in my chest. “Ayesha,” I said softly, her name catching in my throat.

She didn’t move, didn’t look away.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I leaned in, my hand brushing lightly against her arm as I pressed my lips to hers.

For a moment, everything else faded—the hum of the ship, the weight of the past week, the sharp edges of the world around us. It was just her, her warmth, her quiet strength.

She didn’t pull away. Her hand came up to rest lightly against my cheek, a small gesture that felt monumental in its simplicity. When she finally broke the kiss, her gaze held mine, steady but searching.

“That was… bold,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

I smiled faintly, my heart still racing. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a while.”

Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a rare expression that felt like a victory.

“And?”

“And I’m glad I did,” I said honestly.

She didn’t reply, but the way she looked at me at that moment—steady, unguarded—said more than words ever could.

Personal Log: 7th September 2412

September has brought a kind of calm to the Blissful, though calm is a relative term on a ship that has seen what we’ve seen. The wounds from the Klingon assault have healed, but the memories linger in the edges of conversations, in the way people glance at each other just a moment too long, or the way voices lower when the subject of boarding actions comes up.

Sickbay has settled into its usual rhythm, and with it, so have Ayesha and I. Whatever we are now—whatever that kiss meant—we haven’t talked about it, not directly. And yet, everything feels different. The air between us carries a charge that wasn’t there before, unspoken but undeniable.

The shift had been quiet. A few routine injuries, a minor allergic reaction, and an overly ambitious ensign who decided to challenge a holodeck program well above his abilities. Ayesha and I worked side by side, our movements as synchronised as they’d ever been.

She was at the central console, her focus fixed on a diagnostic scan. The glow of the display lit her face, highlighting the faint ridges in her nose as she analysed the data. I watched her for a moment, unable to help myself.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

Caught off guard, I cleared my throat and leaned casually against the edge of the console. “Just admiring your dedication.”

Her lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile I’d seen all day. “Dedication is a requirement, not a virtue.”

“And yet, you make it look so effortless,” I replied, grinning.

She finally glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “Flattery won’t get you out of finishing those scans.”

We fell into a familiar rhythm after that, working through the remaining cases with quiet efficiency. It wasn’t until the end of the shift, as we were restocking supplies, that the tension I’d been ignoring came to the surface.

“Ayesha,” I began, my voice quieter now. “About… the other day.”

She didn’t pause in her work, but I saw her posture shift slightly, the faintest sign that she was listening. “What about it?”

“I just… wanted to make sure we’re okay,” I said, my words careful. “I know I probably should’ve asked first.”

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable but her eyes steady. “You didn’t need to ask.”

Her words caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond.

“We’re fine, Enys,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “More than fine.”

The weight in my chest eased, and I nodded, offering a faint smile. “Good.”

She studied me for a moment longer before returning to her task, her movements precise as ever. “Just don’t expect me to start quoting poetry or something,” she added, her voice carrying the faintest hint of humour. “And don’t think that lets you off the hook,”

“Noted,” I replied, chuckling softly.

Things with Ayesha are… complicated, but not in a bad way. It’s like trying to read a star chart while the stars themselves are shifting—familiar but constantly changing.

For now, I’ll take the moments as they come. We have time, and for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

Personal Log: 24th September 2412

Returning to the Blissful after a week on Earth felt both familiar and strange, like slipping back into a routine you hadn’t realised you missed. Visiting my siblings had been good for me, a reminder of home and the pieces of my life outside of Starfleet. But as much as I enjoyed it, I found myself counting the days until I returned. Not just to the ship, but to her.

I hadn’t told Ayesha I was going on leave. It didn’t seem necessary; we don’t talk about every detail of our lives, and she’s never been one to ask. Still, I wondered if she’d noticed my absence, if the space I left had been felt at all.

When I walked into sickbay that evening, it was quiet, almost serene. The biobeds were empty, and the dimmed lights gave the space a calm I wasn’t used to. I’d expected to find her at the central console, pouring over reports or calibrating equipment with her usual precision. But the room was empty.

I found her in the observation lounge.

The faint smell of paint reached me before I saw her. Ayesha was seated on the floor, cross-legged, with a canvas propped against a sofa. Her jacket had been draped over a nearby chair, leaving her in the grey undershirt that somehow made her seem softer, more of a person. The colours on the canvas were deep and rich—blues, greens, and subtle strokes of gold that shimmered in the dim light.

For a moment, I stood in the doorway, watching her. Her movements were slow, deliberate, the brush gliding across the surface with a precision that reminded me of how she worked in sickbay. But this wasn’t work. This was something else entirely.

“You’re back,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet without breaking it. She didn’t look up, but there was no mistaking the acknowledgement in her tone.

“I am,” I replied, stepping into the room. “I didn’t know you painted.”

“It’s not something I share,” she said, dipping her brush into a jar of paint.

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked, moving closer but careful not to disrupt her focus.

“Since the Academy,” she replied. “It… helps.”

“Helps with what?” I pressed gently, lowering myself to the floor a few feet away.

She paused, the brush hovering over the canvas. “The noise,” she said finally, her voice quieter now.

I watched her work, the silence between us comfortable. The painting wasn’t what I expected—abstract, fluid, full of movement and light. It didn’t fit the sharp, precise image of her I carried in my mind, and yet, it felt like an extension of who she was beneath the surface.

“Why movement?” I asked after a while, nodding toward the canvas.

Her hand stilled, and for a moment, she seemed to weigh her answer. “Because it’s constant,” she said simply. “Even when you can’t see it.”

Her words stayed with me, lingering in the quiet as she returned to her work.

When she finally set the brush down, she leaned back slightly, her shoulders relaxing. The room felt smaller somehow, more intimate, as if the space between us had folded in on itself.

“I missed this,” I said softly, breaking the silence.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “What?”

“Being here,” I said, meeting her gaze. “With you.”

She didn’t reply immediately, her gaze searching mine as if looking for something she couldn’t quite name. “You could have told me you were going then,” she said, quietly, turning back to the canvas and picking up her brush.

I shifted closer, wrapping my arms gently around her waist. “I’m sorry,” She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned back into me, the her head resting lightly against my shoulder. I rested my face on her hair.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of the ship, the scratch of the brush on canvas, and the faint scent of paint filled the air, but it all felt distant, muted by the weight of the moment.

“Did you miss this?” I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “Maybe,” she said, her tone soft but steady.

Personal Log: 13th October 2412

October has brought with it a subtle shift, the kind you don’t notice immediately but feel in the quiet moments. Sickbay has settled into its rhythm again, the chaos of earlier months replaced by the steady hum of routine. Patients come and go, injuries are treated, lives are saved—and through it all, Ayesha remains constant, a force of sharpness and control that keeps everything moving.

But something feels different. Not wrong, exactly, but inevitable. Like the faint pull of gravity drawing you toward something you can’t yet see.

We were halfway through a quiet shift when I first felt it. Ayesha was at the central console, reviewing a set of long-term care reports for the crew still recovering from the Klingon assault. I was restocking supplies, a mundane task that gave me too much time to think.

She didn’t say anything at first, but there was a tension in her movements—a slight stiffness in the way she tapped at the screen, the faintest pause between her actions. It wasn’t like her. Ayesha didn’t pause; she calculated, she acted.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked finally, setting down the medkit I’d been organising.

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “Why would anything be on my mind?”

“Because I know you,” I said simply.

Her lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “You think you do,” she replied, her tone carrying that familiar edge of dry humour.

“Enlighten me, then,” I said, stepping closer.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the console. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than I expected. “There’s an opportunity… one I wasn’t expecting.”

My chest tightened slightly, though I tried to keep my tone even. “What kind of opportunity?”

She straightened, her posture regaining its usual sharpness. “A transfer. Starbase 343. They need someone to oversee their trauma response unit.”

The words landed like a phaser blast, sudden and heavy. I opened my mouth to respond but found myself at a loss. “When did this come up?” I asked finally.

“Last week,” she said, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing inventory levels. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The rest of the shift passed in a haze of routine tasks and unspoken tension. I kept myself busy, treating minor cases and reorganising equipment, but my mind kept returning to her words. Ayesha leaving wasn’t something I’d allowed myself to consider. She’d always been there, a constant in the chaos, her presence as familiar as the hum of the biobeds.

It wasn’t until the end of the shift, when the patients had been discharged and the lights dimmed, that I found the courage to approach her again.

“You didn’t tell me you were thinking about leaving,” I said, leaning against the console as she shut down the day’s logs.

“I wasn’t,” she replied, not looking up. “At least, not until now.”

Her words carried a weight I couldn’t ignore, and I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “What’s making you consider it?”

She paused, her hands stilling on the console. “It’s not about wanting to leave,” she said finally. “It’s about… needing to do more.”

“You already do more than anyone else,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

She looked at me then, her gaze steady but not unkind. “That’s not what I mean.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her that leaving wasn’t the answer, but I knew better. Ayesha wasn’t someone you convinced. She was someone you listened to, someone you trusted to make her own choices.

“Have you decided yet?” I asked softly.

“No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

As the room fell silent, I realised how much I didn’t want her to go. It wasn’t just about her presence in sickbay or the way she steadied the team—it was about her. About the quiet moments we’d shared, the connection that had grown between us. The surge of emotion forced me to step forward, wrapping my arms around her and pressing my lips against hers. She obliged my emotions. Finally, I stepped back. “If you do go,” I said, my voice no more than a whisper, “just… let me know before you decide.”

She nodded, her expression softening slightly. “I will.”

Ayesha’s potential transfer feels like the beginning of an ending I’m not ready for. I’ve always admired her drive, her sharpness, her ability to push herself beyond what anyone else would. But the thought of her leaving feels like losing something I didn’t realise I couldn’t do without.

For now, all I can do is wait. And hope.

Personal Log: 1st November 2412

The day I’d been dreading arrived faster than I thought it would. Ayesha’s transfer orders were confirmed, and just like that, the inevitability of her leaving shifted from abstract to real. She was going to Starbase 343, and as much as I wanted to argue, to convince her to stay, I knew it wouldn’t change anything.

She wasn’t leaving out of dissatisfaction or frustration—she was leaving because she felt compelled to do more, to take on a challenge that only she could. It’s one of the things I admire most about her, even if it’s also the thing that’s taking her away.

The day had been busy, sickbay filled with the usual stream of injuries and illnesses that come from life aboard a starship. Ayesha worked with her usual precision, moving from one patient to the next with an efficiency that left no room for hesitation.

But there was something different about her today, a quietness in her movements, a weight in her expression. She didn’t say anything about her departure, didn’t mention it once throughout the shift. But we all knew. The staff moved around her with an unspoken reverence, as if they, too, understood the gravity of the day.

When the shift ended, she stayed behind, her focus fixed on the central console as she reviewed patient logs one last time. I lingered by the doorway, watching her, trying to find the words I needed to say.

“You’re not going to slip away without saying goodbye, are you?” I asked finally, my voice breaking the silence.

She glanced up, her expression as unreadable as ever. “I don’t slip away, Enys,” she replied, her tone dry but softer than usual.

“Good,” I said, stepping into the room. “Because I’d hate to think you were avoiding me.”

She straightened, closing the logs with a finality that felt heavier than it should have. “I thought you’d have more to say,” she said, turning to face me.

“I do,” I replied, taking a step closer. “I just don’t know where to start.”

Her gaze held mine, steady but searching. “Start with the truth.”

I nodded, taking a breath. “The truth is… I’m going to miss you. More than I can put into words.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, to my surprise, she smiled—small, fleeting, but real. “You’ll survive,” she said quietly.

“Maybe,” I said, smiling faintly. “But it won’t be the same without you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy, filled with everything we weren’t saying.

“Ayesha,” I began, my voice soft, “are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “This is the right move.”

I nodded, though it felt like my chest was tightening with every word. “Then I’m happy for you,” I said, even though it felt like the hardest thing I’d ever said.

She stepped closer then, her usual sharpness giving way to something softer. “You’ll be fine, Enys,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And so will I.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I didn’t say anything. Instead, I reached out, wrapping my arms around her in a way I hadn’t before. She leaned into me, her head resting lightly against my shoulder.

For a long moment, we stood there, the quiet hum of sickbay the only sound.

When she pulled back, there was something unspoken in her expression, something I couldn’t name but felt deeply. “Goodbye, Raphael,” she said softly, using my first name for the first time in… I couldn’t even remember how long.

“Goodbye, Ayesha,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. And then she kissed me.

I didn’t want her to pull away. But Ayesha did not care what you wanted. She smiled at me, a soft, genuine smile that made me weak at the knees and my heart jump up to my throat. The words came unbidden to my mouth. I had to tell her, to let her know.

“Ayesha… I… I lo…”

But I never got to finish the sentence, her finger pressing into my lips.

“No…” she breathed, shaking her head. “Don’t say it…”

I could see tears form in her eyes, but before I could do or say anything more, she turned and left without looking back, her footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Just like that, she was gone.

Personal Log: 5th November 2412

The ship feels quieter now, though I know it’s not really. Sickbay hums with the same rhythm it always has, biobeds buzzing softly, nurses and medics moving between stations with practised efficiency. Patients come and go, reports pile up, and the day marches on. But without her, it feels… different.

Ayesha has only been gone for a few days, but her absence lingers in the corners of every moment. I keep expecting to hear her sharp voice cutting through the room, a precise command that steadies everyone around her. I catch myself looking toward the central console, thinking I’ll find her there, fingers flying over the controls as she pours over diagnostic scans.

She’s not there. And she won’t be again.

The crew has adapted quickly, as they always do. Starfleet teaches us to keep moving, to press on no matter what we lose along the way. But for me, it’s not as simple as filling the space she left.

I spent part of today clearing her workstation. It wasn’t much—Ayesha was never one for clutter—but even the small things felt significant. A data pad with half-completed notes, a tricorder she’d meticulously recalibrated, the faintest smudge of paint on the edge of the desk that she probably never noticed.

I left the paint.

When I’m alone in my quarters, it’s worse. There’s no routine to fill the silence, no distractions to pull me away from the thought of her. The volleyball she left serves only to taunt me. I replay our last conversation, the way she leaned into me when I held her, the taste of her lips from our final kiss, the quiet weight of her presence in those final moments. And the words I wanted to tell her, but couldn’t.

She said I’d be fine. I believed her then, and I want to believe her now. But the truth is, I’m not sure I will be. At least, not yet.

I told her I was happy for her, and I meant it. Ayesha is destined for great things—she always has been. She’s the kind of person who leaves a mark wherever she goes, someone who changes the space around her without even trying. Starbase 343 is lucky to have her, even if losing her feels like a piece of the ship has been torn away.

But it’s more than the ship. It’s me.

There’s a message waiting in my inbox. From her. I haven’t opened it yet. Not because I don’t want to, but because once I do, it’ll feel real in a way it doesn’t yet.

I will, though. Maybe tomorrow.

End log.