In the first second of recovery, I wonder if the others saw what I saw, felt what I felt, knew what I know, and how it had taken them. Who had given in to that temptation to just cease, to stop existing, to never exist. They all look the same, though, as if nothing has happened, as if they felt none of it – but perhaps they never did. If they had never existed, after all, would I know it? It would be someone else sitting there instead, in the captain's chair or at one of the various stations around the bridge, someone else who was yet was not there before we made the jump. Indeed, I may not even be the same person who sat in this seat, who made the decision to not-be and was replaced with me.
Or perhaps the option was only available to me. I am the only psychic on board, after all. I see things nobody else sees. If minds are like nuts, theirs are still closed tight while mine was shattered open long ago.
And I see things nobody else sees. Everyone stares out of the plasteel windows in rapt fascination, and talk about a "tunnel of blue light," everything blurring past like a subway passing another subway going in the opposite direction, the glow of their lights a wave flinging past at twice the speed you know you're going, too fast, too fast. That subtle sense of alienness at seeing something that big and made of metal moving past at such speeds, like you get with helicopters and planes and now, yes now, spaceships, but only sensed when you see it happen in person and not on a screen. Screens insulate, making real life alien.
I see that alienness out in the tunnel of light beyond, the tunnel that FTL makes of light. It's like seeing a special effects illusion in real life. I see the alienness and it repels me, touches something deep inside and dead, resuscitates it for a moment, just long enough to drive me from what everyone else sees as a wonder, a glory.