I sighed, the familiar, unceremonious melody of my alarm floating through my room. Pushing my face and ears farther into my pillow, I tried to obstruct the sound. Once that proved unsuccessful, I got up, walked over to my dormitory control panel, and gracefully punched the OFF button.

Ah. Each morning started the very same. It might sound far too conventional, but I found comfort in the routine.

Normally, I woke up and briskly prepared for the day. However, on this particular morning, I felt lethargic, verging on numb. I heaved myself back onto the bed and wrapped my body in the comforter, attempting to warm my stiff limbs and soothe my mental discomfort.

I should have chided myself for acting so irrationally; but that day, I allowed myself to grieve. After all, it wasn't as if I had somewhere to be, seeing as I had completed yet another year of school the day previous.

Another year, another heartbreak. And in this instance, two.

Now, I can imagine what you're thinking, that completing a year of school isn't supposed to be a melancholy occasion. The pressure of evaluations is over, and summer break begins.

Unfortunately, it was rarely that simple on the stations. Never for me, anyways.

The stations, for all their opulence, had some definite problems, one of the most consequential of which being the way they encouraged fierce competition. See, each year, starting in the first grade, the child in each class who scored the lowest results on the end-of-year neural scan was deported to Alabaster, a remedial education center located on a violent, warring, chaotic Earth. There, they would be left to serve out whatever time remained of their first two decades of life -- assuming they even made it that far. Then, the rest of the class would stay together and move up through the grades, losing one more student annually. What this meant for me was that each spring, I'd lose one member of the family I'd spent years working to develop.

This situation was made even worse by the realization that the competition was unnecessary and truly detrimental. Science had long before proven that group learning is effective: put simply, we all learn better together. Throughout the grades, I'd organized study groups, recreational team-building exercises, and weekly class meals to keep us united and focused, then encouraged other classes to do the same. Such endeavors had even earned me the unofficial title of "Student Ambassador" from the media, and they bonded my class in a way that had never before been seen on Alpha. I was proud of that accomplishment, but, even more so, I grew to love my classmates. That's what made it so painful to see them ripped away from their home, one by one, year after year. And, the day before this one, I lost not only one classmate but two.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hard enough to hurt, trying to quell the raging tide of memories.

"Alexander Green, you have failed to meet the requirements for continued residence in Station Alpha. Prepare to be deported." The headmaster's voice rang out clearly, matter-of-fact and authoritative.

I watched Alexander climb into the shuttle, his trademark worn orange backpack slung over his shoulder. He looked back at me and Dana, a brave expression etched into his face as he began to close the shuttle door.

"WAIT!!" Dana's voice, high-pitched and full of panic, cut through the silence. She hurriedly shoved past the rope dividers and the teachers who tried to stop her, making her way to Alex.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "I'm coming with you."

Dissenting murmurs broke out among the crowd as they realized Dana was volunteering herself for deportation, and the media team immediately rolled the cameras closer.

Alex shook his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. His lips were moving, but it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

"Not against Jada," I heard Dana say quietly, her higher voice floating over the loud hum of the crowd. "Everyone knows she's going to graduate, not me."

Alex looked at her sadly. His voice was slightly louder now, and partly audible. "I can't let you do this. I have no idea what to expect... could be dangerous."

"Hurry up already!" shouted a teenager in the back of the room.

Dana stared at him intensely. "I love you, Alex," she said, before kissing him and then glaring around the room defiantly. Alex, eyes widened in surprise, slipped his hand into hers.

"Are you sure about this, Dana?"

"Absolutely."

"Good luck!" I shouted. They turned and gave me a grateful smile. "Thank you," mouthed Alex.

Then they walked into the shuttle, hand-in-hand, never looking back.

As I lay in bed, reliving that afternoon, I wondered if Alex and Dana had made it safely to Alabaster. How were they adjusting to the thought of two extra years of schooling? Had they been assigned comfortable accommodations? Would they be able to spend lots of time together, and would they come visit me when they earned their citizenship? At least I knew they'd survived the shuttle flight - had there been another terrorist attack, it surely would have been broadcast by the media. Right?

While I couldn't help worrying about them, I knew they were better off together, rather than if Alex had been sent away alone. Dana and he were strong, brilliant individuals. They made a resourceful couple, and if anyone could pass their time quickly and happily on Alabaster, I was confident that they could.

I breathed, rhythmically inhaling and exhaling to calm myself, assessing my immediate personal situation.

In just a few months, I was to begin twelfth grade, and there needed to be two students to retain the traditional senior model. However, as the result of Dana's decision the day prior, I was alone on my class roster.

This situation was usually remedied in one of two ways: a merge, or a transfer. A merge was the term used when two classes on Alpha, both faced with an incomplete roster, were joined together. Merging, though rare, was the usual solution to a predicament like mine, although management often tried to avoid them due to the imbalance they could cause. After all, with two thousand different classes per grade, each grouped and measured by their neural scan results, there was a lot of room for variation when it came to ability and test scores. So, for example, merging a Class 2000 student with a Class 1 student wasn't particularly fair. A transfer, on the other hand, was the label given to a student from Earth or from another station. While transfers were common in the lower grades, as young brains evolved constantly and sometimes dramatically, they were virtually unheard of in eleventh or twelfth grade. By then, youths' positions in the percentiles were generally static, increasing or decreasing minimally.

Rolling over, I reminded myself that speculating on the unknown future was a futile and irrational exercise. I would discover who would take Dana's place in my class soon enough. In the meantime, I knew that lounging passively would accomplish nothing. So, I pushed off the bed and readied myself to face the day.