His hand tightens back. He feels dizzy. The people in the newsroom sound so relieved, and Michael can’t fully understand because he’s anxious, scared, thrilled, burning, swirling and bursting and coiling inside like a star, and he can’t imagine feeling relief until the astronauts return to earth. He is truly glad that they didn’t crash-land on the surface of the moon, but the sentiment is overshadowed by the massive fact that they are there. Part of him is there too now, yanked out and thrown millions of miles into the nothing, hovering like a ghost somewhere beside Buzz and Neil. He’s unusually still and quiet, worried that if he moves it will throw everything off. He hasn’t felt like this in a while.
Walter Cronkite goes back to talking calmly over the simulations. After a few minutes, Michael wrenches his gaze from the screen and looks out the window, up at the sky. There’s nothing there right now. No moon, no stars. Terrible. He wishes it were nighttime. Day shouldn’t even exist right now.