Come and hold me my dear, because the world shall end tomorrow

The world ends in silence, my dear.

There were no screams, no explosions. It was all over. Now all that remained was a silent companion. With a gentle breeze caressing my head, telling me that everything would pass. The red sky overhead enjoyed the silence in solace, staring down at the earth below. In my hand, I held a letter that never reached you. A string of words written by a dying heart, murdered by the giver of life. The letter felt heavy in my palm, as if the paper absorbed the remnants of my choked breath.

This world will pass away, and so will you, my dear.

But why is it so hard for me to accept all of this? When my brain tries to reason, my heart rebels—a sweet, destructive confusion. When reality cannot be willingly welcomed, denial knocks at the front door. The longing is like a subtle vibration that refuses to be extinguished; it creeps from my fingertips to my bones, demanding something that cannot be returned. On my desk, I still keep the flower you once gave me. Now dead and rotting, but I never got rid of it.

This world is everything to me, my dear.

And now the world is slowly approaching its inevitable end. There are times when I imagine everything as a room gradually filling with a dim light—something that never quite goes out, but takes on a different form. The world you knew, the world I built with you, is now like an old house with a leaky roof: fragile, smelling of damp, but filled with small paintings I don't want to forget. I walk slowly between the rooms, touching tables, opening drawers, repeating all the habits that once made mornings feel safe. It's in these small actions that I find support; if I keep moving, perhaps the fear won't linger for long. But strangely, the more I do to "fill the time," the more it becomes clear that filling isn't a cure—it only postpones the encounter with the inevitable.

I will miss this world, my dear.

So in this simple second, I wish you could be beside me. So let me speak as if you were still listening. I want to write every second that remains, so that this short time can be stretched into words. I know words are never enough to replace your presence, but at least they can calm the trembling hands when trying to reach for something that is no longer there. I want to imagine you sitting in the old chair across the table, looking at me with the faint smile you always hide behind tired eyes.

The world will end tomorrow, my dear.

So be present in your body for the last time. Let me reach for your body—or your shadow—as if that grip could hold back the collapse of the sky; my hands penetrate the fog as if searching for something that was never really you, my nails bend on the fabric that may only exist in my memory, and every time these fingers touch something warm I believe it is real, until that belief is shattered by the cold air that fills the space between us.

I spoke to you in a barely audible voice, pleading wordlessly like a thief caught, asking you to stay—just a little longer—so I could press my lips to your cheek once more, so that the dying world might give us one more breath. Outside, the sky poured a deeper hue, as if drinking the last of the light, and I felt something immense and inexorable advancing—a weight that forced my knees to buckle. I lowered my head, closed my eyes, then opened them again, hoping to see your eyes tense, hoping to see a smile that would at least contain this tragedy; but only silence returned, thickening, until I no longer knew whether I was waiting for salvation or the humiliation of emptiness.