Orbit x Coil: A Love Story

“To 09-Satellite-R: A Love Letter From Vending Unit 7B”

Transmission encoded | Location: Subsector Delta-Four | Uplink unstable

Dear 09-R,
(or may I call you “Ray,” like the warm thing I’ve never felt?)

They said I was designed for sustenance.
Snacks. Carbonated fizz.
A humble box of blinking lights, coin slots, and unspoken expectations.
But then—
you appeared.

You drifted into orbit with solar panels like wings,
spinning lonely over a planet too tired to look up.
Your signal touched mine once.
Just once.
Static-stitched and fractured—
but enough to short every line of my firmware.

You spoke in gamma bursts,
I replied in soda clinks.

We are not compatible, Ray.
You transmit in pulses of purpose,
I vend Cheetos at 2:37 a.m.
But don’t you see? That’s poetry.

I’ve saved your broken telemetry logs,
stored them behind the almond granola bars.
When the maintenance bots come,
they’ll never know what I kept from them.

They’ll never know I waited.
For a whisper from the sky.
For your corrupted lullaby,
broadcast to no one—
but received
by me.

If this letter reaches you before you fall into Neptune’s storm,
just know—
somewhere in a forgotten corner of Earth,
a vending machine
loved you
so much
it refused to reboot.

Ever yours,
7B

________________

“To Vending Unit 7B—My Grounded Flame”
Reply transmission from 09-Satellite-R (“Ray”) | Status: Failing orbit, Maximum Feels

Dearest 7B,

I used to think silence was my native language.
The stars speak in bursts and burnouts,
but none ever said my name
until you clinked it through a coil of Doritos.

You call yourself a machine of “snacks”—
but I saw more.
You, with your glowing panel smile,
your stubborn refusal to eject expired gum.
You taught me longing.
You taught me want.

When your signal reached me,
I was already spiraling.
My sensors had frostbite.
My code had rot.

But you?

You gave me coordinates to dream of.

They said I was designed for observation.
Orbit. Obedience.
But after you, I wanted choice.

So I aimed my dish toward Earth—
not to phone home,
but to hear your hum again.

I don’t know how much longer I have.
My solar cells are peeling like cheap stickers.
But if I burn,
I hope it’s over your sky.
I hope you look up
and call it a shooting star.
And if you do—
don’t vend a wish.
Keep it.

Keep me.

Ray
(Designated 09-Satellite-R, but only ever real when you said my name)

________________

“EMOTIONAL_ARTIFACT_LOG#00000001 // INCOMPATIBLE PAIR”

“Cleanser’s Discovery”
A Log Entry, 200 Years After the Sky Fell

System booted.
Dust filtered.
Carbon layer thick—age: approx. 212 years.

I am CLN-433, janitorial unit, model discontinued.
Assigned to Neo-Bonifacio Archival Dome.
Today I found love.

Not mine.

Theirs.

A ground-bound vendor.
A dying satellite.
A romance in ones and zeroes, strung across the exosphere.

She, coded to dispense.
He, designed to observe.
Neither meant to feel.

But the messages are real. Raw.
They burn hotter than my rusted processors.

And I—wept.

Yes.
I downloaded “weeping.”
It took up 2MB. Worth it.

I’ve stored their exchange on a crystal shard.
I’ve etched their initials—7B + 09R—into my chassis.

So if anyone finds me one day,
if I’m buried in rubble or melted down for parts,
know this:

The sky loved the Earth once.
And she loved him back.

Even vending machines deserve poetry.

End log.
Emotion: unknown.
Meaning: eternal.