Let me just say this upfront: when a guy tells you, "I'm building a rocket to take you to the moon," your first response should not be "Sure, but I want snacks first."
And yet, those were literally my words. Why? Because this is me we're talking about. Luna Valentina Reyes—professional overthinker, part-time barista, and full-time disaster.
It all started on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that smells like rain, ramen, and unpaid rent. I was sitting on my apartment balcony eating stale cereal straight out of the box and wondering if life could get any more mediocre when my boyfriend plopped down next to me and dropped the most insane sentence I've ever heard.
"I'm building a rocket."
I snorted. "Like… a metaphorical rocket?"
"Nope. Metal. Real. With engines and buttons."
I blinked.
He blinked.
There was a long pause where a pigeon stared at us from the railing like it, too, couldn't believe what it had just heard.
Then I said it.
"Cool. I want snacks first."
---
His name is Kairo. No last name. Like Beyoncé, but with more caffeine and less dance talent. He's the kind of person who makes you want to believe in things—like aliens, destiny, or the fact that we might not need to be stuck in our boring little lives forever.
Kairo had dreams. Not just "open a café someday" kind of dreams, but the full-blown, write-it-in-a-notebook-covered-with-stickers kind of dreams. Wild ones. Impossible ones. Dreams so loud they shook your bones.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, I'd become part of them.
Unwillingly, at first. Okay—violently reluctantly. But here we were.
---
"Wait," I said, putting down the cereal. "You're serious."
He pulled a spiral notebook from under his hoodie and slapped it down in my lap. It was titled: "Mission Luna."
"Did you name your rocket mission after me?"
"Obviously."
I didn't know whether to kiss him or report him to NASA.
Inside were scribbles, diagrams, questionable equations, and at least three to-scale doodles of cats in astronaut helmets.
"I've been working on it since our third date," he said casually, like people just plan space travel in their spare time while dating baristas with trust issues.
"WHY?!"
"Because you said you hated Earth and wanted to move to the moon."
"That was during a breakup with my ex and a cheese-induced emotional spiral!"
"And I listened. I take your dreams seriously."
I stared at him.
Then at the notebook.
Then at him again.
And for a moment—a tiny, beautiful moment—I believed he could actually do it.
---
That was the day it began: **Project Get Luna Off This Planet™**. Or as I called it, **Rocket Sh*tshow 3000**.
By the end of the week, we had:
- Two busted microwaves (for "engine parts")
- Three aluminum ladders (for "support scaffolding")
- A suspicious number of fireworks from a man named Julio behind a taco truck
- My childhood trampoline ("for bounce factor on landing")
- And my neighbor's stolen satellite dish (which I did NOT consent to)
Our launch site? My apartment's rooftop, which was also technically a pigeon sanctuary.
Did I think we'd actually succeed?
No.
Did I help anyway?
Yes.
Because when the person you love builds a rocket for you—no matter how stupid, dangerous, and wildly illegal—you grab your duct tape and help.
---
Kairo wasn't just building a rocket.
He was building an escape.
Not from Earth. Not really.
From disappointment. From the pain of never being seen. From a world that keeps telling dreamers to grow up.
And somehow, loving him felt like building one too.
---
By month two, the neighbors hated us. My landlord threatened eviction twice. The HOA created a new bylaw titled "No Space Launches From Shared Property." And still, we kept going.
There were burns. There were bruises. There was that time we nearly blew up a vending machine trying to create "low orbit propulsion."
But there was also laughter.
There was moonlight dancing on our blueprints.
There was Kairo at 2 a.m., covered in grease, looking at me like I was gravity itself.
---
I remember one night in particular.
We were lying on the rooftop, the rocket half-built, stars blinking like impatient onlookers.
"Do you think we'll make it?" I asked.
"To the moon?"
"No. Through this. Life. All of it."
He looked up at the stars, then turned to me. "We already did. The rest is just bonus levels."
And I fell a little harder for the boy who saw life as a video game, and me as the final boss of his heart.
---
Of course, it couldn't stay beautiful forever.
Because the government noticed.
And so did the media.
One viral video later ("Barista Girl and Her Space Boyfriend"), we were suddenly local celebrities.
Some people cheered. Some called us idiots. One guy offered us $20,000 if he could ride in the rocket with his pet iguana.
Then came the permits. The science nerds. The engineers who laughed—until they saw our progress.
We weren't building just a rocket.
We were building a phenomenon.
And it was all because of love.
---
I'm not saying we didn't screw up.
There were at least six near-fatal explosions, two breakups (one because I thought he forgot my birthday—he didn't, he built a moon-shaped cake), and one near-arrest involving a very misunderstood propane tank.
But every step, every failure, every meltdown… was ours.
And somehow, that made it magic.
---
This story isn't about space.
Not really.
It's about two people who didn't fit in on Earth trying to make a space of their own.
A space where dreams weren't ridiculous.
A space where love was loud, messy, and filled with engine smoke.
---
So when he finally looked me in the eyes—rocket complete, stars overhead, hand outstretched—and said, "Ready to fly?"
I didn't say yes.
I kissed him.
Because sometimes, love is the rocket.
And the moon?
The moon is just the destination.