Nneka and Nonso had always stared at the sky with the same dream. As kids, they would lie on their backs in the open fields of their village, tracing constellations with their fingers and imagining a life beyond Earth.

"I’ll be the first Nigerian in space," Nonso would say, grinning. "And you’ll be the first to interview me when I land."

Nneka always laughed. "Why do you get to go first?"

"Because I’m older," he teased. "By three minutes!"

They were inseparable—two halves of the same star, bound by a dream as vast as the universe.

But dreams don’t always survive reality.

Nonso was the one who pursued aerospace engineering, the one who worked tirelessly toward becoming an astronaut. But then, just before his final exams, tragedy struck.

A drunk driver ran a red light. One moment, Nonso was on his way to class; the next, he was gone.

Nneka shattered. The sky they had both loved now felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on her.

For months, she couldn’t even look up.

But one day, as she went through his old notebooks, she found a letter he had written to himself:

"If I ever doubt myself, I must remember—Nneka and I were meant to reach the stars together. If I can’t make it, she will. I believe in her."

That was the moment she knew.

She picked up where he left off.

She switched her major to aerospace engineering. She trained relentlessly, pushing past every obstacle. People doubted her. Some said space wasn’t for women, let alone a Nigerian woman. But every time she wanted to give up, she heard Nonso’s voice in her head—"You’ll get there, Nneka."

And one day, she did.

Standing on the launch pad, suited up for her first space mission, she looked up at the vast, endless sky and whispered, "We made it, Nonso."

Then, with the roar of engines and a heart full of both grief and triumph, she soared—beyond Earth, beyond pain, beyond the stars.