I floated through the narrow corridor of the ISS, the hum of machinery reminding me of the delicate job of keeping us alive.

I'm the communications officer on this mission. My job is to monitor and

interpret the data flowing in from a new array of radio telescopes. These telescopes, bolted to the exterior of the station,

are designed to pick up the faint signals of the Cosmos, the distant pulsars

that might reveal secrets of the universe.

Life on the ISS is a dance of precision and routine.

Each night I'd strap myself into my sleeping bag, floating gently in my small sleeping quarters.

The weightlessness was a constant reminder that Earth and its gravity were hundreds of kilometers below.

Breakfast was always a rehydrated meal eaten quickly before the day's tasks began.

My crew mates and I moved through our routines with efficiency, every action measured to conserve

energy and resources.

Becoming part of the ISS crew was driven by a need to feel something beyond in my life.

The raw, unfilted experiences of space offered an escape I craved. In the vast silence of the Cosmos I found temporary solace, a way to immerse myself in something greater

than me.

Every day I would float to the cupola, the observation module, my favorite spot on the

ISS, the panoramic view of Earth below, rotating slowly,

make me reflect on the life I had left behind. The new telescopes were my

primary focus, and I spent countless hours analyzing the data they

captured.

The telescopes were sophisticated pieces of technology, designed to detect the rhythmic pulses of neutron stars, pulsars.

These dying stars emitted beams of radiation that could be detected across vast distances.

My role was to interpret these signals, to sift through the data and find meaning in the

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