This year, I became one of the four hundred. In competition with every person on this planet, I got in. I couldn't tell you exactly what I did to make the cut, but I will say that I didn't vote for myself. They say that voting for yourself will drop your rank. It's one of those truths you don't remember hearing for the first time, but you joke about it among friends, and your grandmother reminds you so often that it must be true. Though oddly enough, thinking back, I know of people who still did it.

            The formal acceptance letter I received, full of formal yet flowery fluff words all just to say congratulations, doesn't detail the specific qualities they saw in me. But I can picture my teacher, leaning against the old, scuffed classroom doorway, saying it was the ease in which I can explain the form and functions of a cell's nucleus, proceed to explain the history of the discovery, and finish with the etymology of the word. A friend once said I love to lose myself down the rabbit hole so much that I could be an actual rabbit. And also, I'm the fastest rabbit they've ever seen.

            As for my priest, I can picture him sitting in his ancient office chair at his dusty corner desk, looking over the top of his glasses at me. Then, with a gruff laugh, saying it is my clear conscious and strong devotion to things that are greater than myself. And then proceed to remind me not to miss his sermon again next week.

            And I know my mother would lean forward, elbow resting on the arm of her favorite chair with her head leaning against her hand. Her eyes would wander the room for a moment while her smile widened, and she would say it's my kindness and empathy that emanates from a peaceful heart­­­, a warmth that draws others in. And my father would walk by the living room and wryly add that I get that from him.

            I really couldn't say with any certainty what qualities they choose for, but even now my heart fills with gratitude for the ones who voted for me, the ones that see my strengths first before my flaws. And I can say that when I read that letter, my vision fixed solely on the first and most important four words, looping back half a dozen times while my hands trembled twice, before I drew in my largest breath since birth and shouted gleefully for my parents. And then we danced like fools in the kitchen.

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            More than a hundred years ago, our world was engaged in a second Worldwide War. The devastation lasted only five years. And yet, in every town and in every country, was a parent who mourned. Everywhere there was yet another school to rebuild, and another farm to regrow. For a few very difficult years, the world seemed to slow while people began the intensive labor of mending both their roads and their relationships. Along the way, a fortitude amongst the common citizens began to grow. The whole world was united in pushing the train of progress forward, gaining momentum to surpass what was even thought be possible in the old world before the war, all while leaving the bitter memories of the past behind.

            Nearly thirty years later, the first piloted spaceship left the planet, its bright yellow fiery trail just another symbol of the progress that had been achieved. Young eyes across the planet were glued to television screens to watch that rocket launch with wonder, minds abuzz with excitement. Those same eyes and minds grew up to gaze at the stars, still abuzz with inspiration. 

            Years later, those curious minds discovered a habitable planet nearly within reach. Only fourteen lightyears away. Within that same generation and the next were millions of scientists, researchers, inventors across every field, countless careers launched by the train of progress still chugging along with fantastic abandon.

            To mark the eighty-fifth anniversary of the entire world trying to destroy itself, a team of researchers discovered a way to maintain a sort of artificial homeostasis within a person's body after being put into suspended animation. The first use of this cryonics on a person was a second Worldwide War veteran with honors, awards, and medals from both the war and the ensuing rebuild. Her last words were broadcast around the world and are often quoted to this day; "One small rest like none other. I'll see you all in the future."

            The journey ahead was absolutely clear to every person who gazed at the stars every night, letting their mind wander over the vastness of space. And in particular, to the ones who had peered into a telescope at that not-so-distant planet that had been deemed plausibly inhabitable.

            At the same time, waking up every day for years in a suffocatingly small capsule in space with dozens of other passengers, just a speck of dust in the wind, would be maddening. Any space adventurers would have to take the trip without waking up every day. Just four times within the 28-year trip in fact. And the greatest minds of the generation formed the outline for the largest step into space yet.

            The first trip would be able to hold one hundred people, and they were carefully selected to be the best and brightest. These brave pioneers would lay the path for the trips to follow. Their primary objective was determining if that nearby planet was truly inhabitable, before then launching even deeper into space for their secondary objectives.

            New young eyes watched the countdown to this groundbreaking launch. Those new young minds were abuzz with excitement when the ship’s rockets ignited and lifted the massive ship. Millions of children sitting on the edge of their seats next to their parents doing the same. And the launch went perfectly. The ship's hundreds of engineers that had worked through every set back, every mistake, and every issue, finally leaned back in their worn seats and let the stress drain from their bodies. Across the globe, scientists and researchers in bars and labs spent hours excitedly babbling and debating about the next steps and the new possibilities.

            And I watched the screen with only a sliver of understanding, as I was just five years old. I did know that both of my parents were involved in a program for developing the spaceship, but watching them pop open a bottle of their expensive juice (“Only for adults”), and then give me ice cream before dinner made me think of my last birthday party. Except they just laughed when I asked whose birthday it was. Looking back, I don't remember when I truly learned the magnitude of my parent's program and that successful launch.

            I do know that they soon after moved on to the design of a second spaceship. And years later would come the day that I received my acceptance letter to be a passenger on the second flight.

###

            My suit arrived eight months after the acceptance letter. An exquisitely turquoise blue with a few bits of bright, colorful patches, it had a smell that reminded me of an industrial tire manufacturing plant a short bike ride away from my childhood house. Except with a cleaner, more chemical smell. I didn't complain though because after the suit warmed to my skin, it just merged into me in an incredible way. That is until I started walking, when the creases pulled away and rubbed the worst places in a mildly annoying way.

            The following nine months were intense. Every day, sleepily riding in the passenger seat of my parents’ car for an hour while the sun only just begun to show itself on the horizon. Trudging through the doors of a massive brick building, into packed classrooms one day, simulation rooms the next. Watching videos that had valuable information buried deep in robotic exposition, which somehow had the power to slow time itself. Yet still, as the sun began to set at the end of the day and my mom drove up to the curb, I was left thinking through all that I had learned and wondering eagerly what I would learn tomorrow.

            Different medical visits every few weeks, learning too many names and faces to remember, hearing from distant relatives for the first time in a long time. At the time it seemed to take forever, until it was only three days before the launch.

###

            That morning, I sat at the soft-white table with a familiar wobble, plate of breakfast overflowing thanks to my lovingly overbearing parents. I looked around the room like it was my first time being here. I thought about the first time I actually had been in this room, in this house, countless years ago. A long day of moving and our beds yet to arrive due to poor planning, leading to makeshift blanket beds in the living room.

            In that moment, I realized for the first time that this might be the last time I'd see this home. We had talked about my parents getting on the next ship. Or possibly me taking the first ship back. And now the excitement had a twinge of fear. My mom interrupted my thoughts with a trunk of clothes dragging behind her while calling for my dad to hurry up. And she told me it was time to go, with a barely noticeable quiver in her voice.

            The sight of the ship growing larger as we drove closer to the site was when the armpits of the suit became just a bit too warm and ever so slightly damp, and the jokes my father was making became fewer and farther between. My laughs were shorter and sharper, though my smile was still genuine.

            The walk to the ship itself took as long as the drive from my home. The elevator up to the main entrance of the ship had a window to the outside world for some fantastical reason, which gave me the chance to view the choppy sapphire-blue ocean stretching to the horizon from a dozen stories up. Also, the chance to question if I was afraid of heights.

            Walking through the narrow corridors of my new home just days before launch will stay with me forever. The clean, pearly-white wall panels perfectly accenting the futuristic goals of the mission. Soft white lights tucked into the edges of the ceiling above led the way to a cozy communal recreation room. Some may have preferred the word 'cramped'. There was a tightly packed kitchenette in the corner that would inevitably become the messiest part of the room. Against the far wall were six tables and matching chairs that folded out of the way to save on space. In the middle of the room were two game tables that could switch between different games, spaced several feet apart and taking up much of the free space in the middle of the room.

            Just down the hall, around the corner, and in the next hall was my room. The bedrooms were small enough for me to touch opposite walls if I really stretched out my arms. All three walls were made up of the same bright white panels spanning from floor to ceiling, accented at the edges by decorative lines of bright colors that made the white panels really pop. Several alcoves were fitted into the wall wherever possible, leading to various sized shelving around the room. Really just enough space for personal belongings like photos of loved ones, books, small pieces of art, the odd trinket or two.

            There was a futuristic bed pushed to the right of the room, leaving just enough room to walk past towards the far wall, complete with a coffin-like lid to seal us in during the cryogenic sleep. At least the top was clear. And the mattress itself, while space saving like everything else, looked relatively comfortable. Tucked underneath the bedframe were a few drawers for clothes.

            At a little above waist height was a screen, tucked into the left wall, which could fold out and be comfortably viewed while laying down. An off-white curtain at the entrance that didn't match with the rest of the interior had been installed slightly crooked. Similar sloppy additions could be seen at neighboring rooms. I offhandedly wondered who exactly, and at what point in the planning process, had suddenly realized we would be awake a week at a time and would need a modicum of privacy.

            The tightly packed rooms were contrasted by the size of the overall spaceship. Even after exiting after my initial tour, it was impossible to see the ship and not stop for several minutes at a time to take it all in. Standing in awe, with head turned towards the sky, peering towards the very top of this behemoth and trying to fathom just how far away it was from where you stood.

            The entire atmosphere was massive. The busy crowds of people working on last minute checks, directing others to different sections of the ship, bringing supplies on board. The crowds were almost as overwhelming as the significance of the journey ahead. All combined, I felt half my size and yet twice as proud. This was honestly so much bigger than any one of us.

###

            The next few days were far from unimportant, but I couldn't tell you much about them. Saying sniffling goodbyes to the ones I was leaving, getting acquainted with a few of the other passengers and with the ship layout.

            My gut would slowly twist at every reminder of this emotional, exhausting, exciting journey I had undertaken. A path that I no longer had control over, accelerating towards an inevitable destination that I couldn't see.

            And in a blink, I was lying in my new bed, a capsule really. I was staring at the ceiling in my bright shiny suit and preparing to sleep. The itch on my right foot slowly travelled up towards my leg as the tingling in all of my extremities grew more intense and my breath became choppy.

            A feigned smile betrayed my nerves to the attendant who walked over to me. My vision was unnaturally focused, with a vignette framing him as he asked if I was ready. I heard myself say "I'm ready" with an unexpected confidence that almost helped to calm myself. He walked me through the process of placing the monitoring cuff on my arm and the face mask over my head and in place over my nose and mouth.

            The attendant’s kind reassurances were a welcome distraction from my pounding heart as I began to slip into the deepest sleep I had ever experienced.