Personal Log - The Quiet

Posted on Tue Jan 20th, 2026 @ 6:29am by Ensign Janelle Barett

466 words; about a 2 minute read

Personal log, Ensign Janelle Barett.

When I think back on my first night aboard the Washington, what stays with me isn’t the size of my quarters or the hum of the ship’s systems.

It’s how quiet everything felt once the door closed.

The room was larger than my Academy quarters. Quieter, too. No voices through thin walls, no shared routines—only the steady, impersonal thrum of the ship, constant and unjudging. At the time, I told myself it was calming.

I remember standing there longer than necessary, posture still perfect, hands at my sides, as if waiting for instructions that never came. Eventually, I asked the computer to dim the lights, softening the unfamiliar space into something more manageable.

I unpacked the way I do most things: methodical, efficient, disciplined. Uniforms first. Duty items next. Personal effects last—few enough to fit into a single drawer.

There was a photograph. Natalie’s arm around my shoulders, both of us laughing at something I can no longer recall. I held it for longer than I meant to before placing it face-down in the drawer instead of setting it out.

I didn’t question that choice at the time.

The chronometer indicated off shift, and the designation carried a weight I hadn’t yet learned to examine.

I remember how easily I walked to the replicator. How the pause before ordering the drink felt deliberate rather than hesitant. A choice. A reward.

Andean whiskey. Neat.

I didn’t drink it right away. I sat at the desk by the viewport and watched Risa drift past—vibrant, alive, distant. I scrolled through messages I didn’t answer. Deleted the one I’d half-written to Natalie without really asking myself why.

The first sip burned in a way I welcomed. It grounded me. Smoothed the edges off thoughts I didn’t want to finish.

That part made sense to me then. The quiet. The narrowing of the world to something manageable.

Vienna Steele stopped by not long after. I remember how easily professionalism slid back into place. How naturally I declined the dinner invitation. How convincing I sounded—to her, and to myself.

I didn’t think about how effortless the refusal had been.

Or how much I’d wanted to say yes.

Later, when I lay back on the bed, the glass on the desk was empty and catching starlight. The ship’s hum felt like a blanket rather than a reminder of where I was. I told myself that tomorrow would be different. Structured. Purposeful.

Just tonight, I’d thought. I earned this.

Now, weeks later, I can see that night more clearly—not as a mistake, exactly, but as a beginning.

A pattern I hadn’t recognized yet.

Not then.

 

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