Adele Oyugo has never had much love for astrophysics.  As a cadet, she had a recurring dream that she was assigned to stellar cartography for a long-term mission.  For her, the dream was a nightmare. 

Where others see beauty in the heavenly dance of stellar bodies, she sees the blank spaces in between – distances marked in scientific notation, numbers literally too large for words.

For all their beauty, the stars are lonely.

These days, Adele is lonely, too, and she finds herself tracking the distance she has traveled like she never has before.  Since that fateful day in January – the day they buried her Imzadi (along with the others) – they have covered 322.67 light years.  The computer tells her this distance is equal to 3.0526287 × 10^15 kilometers, a number so large as to be meaningless, but it's the closest thing she has to a physical measurement of the hole that’s been gouged in her soul.

She knows it could be worse. A few hundred light years is nothing compared to the estimated distance between Federation space and the nearest known Borg vessel, and thousands of her friends and colleagues are out there, trapped inside a living hell – their minds and bodies stolen along with their free will.  Because Adele is an empath, she knows all too well that the ones they left behind hurt more than she does.  At least Ken is at peace, his body at eternal rest among the stars.

She can’t help but feel jealous of the stars now – he loved them in a way she never has, and surely they’re a little less lonely with him in their midst.  But Adele has never felt more alone. 

She tracks the distance between her Imzadi and herself, and realizes her measurements are useless. 

Distance will never bring her healing.  For that, Adele needs time.