Premise: the world ending as a point in time when certain constructs and conveniences cease to exist. For example: I love you from Point A to Point B, with Point A being I can’t remember (day we rode your car, day we got way too drunk, or maybe that moment you played my favorite song, catching me off guard) and Point B being the point/s following:
The world ended when you left the room earlier than I, finishing the exam first, fireworks and firegods surging in through the windows shortly after – we were doomed and now who the fuck cared which answer was correct?
The world ended when you stopped reading poetry, stopped writing whatever song stirred through your ventricles, offering what remained of you to the girl who made it a point to disappear every now and then, teaching you to unlearn object permanence across continents and connecting flights, crooning Baby, baby, I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, oh baby, and the call melts into static as cracks slowly crawl on the walls and you try to find a word or two to tell yourself what’s happening, when will this end, please make it stop, please?
The world ended when I gave you your birthday present, wrapped in smoke, laden with charms from an ageing demi-god, and when you said Thank you, blankly, I looked into your black eyes and knew we were done – no more watching out for each other, waiting outside after class, after hours, wandering off into adventures, wasting the nights away – over: what I kept thinking when, months after, I delivered the last kind blow of a sledgehammer straight to your dying face.
The world ended when I let the waters reach my feet, letting the process proceed despite its unpleasantness: feet slowly growing scales guaranteed to shield from acid and toxins, the sea and all its waste, bones split to the marrow, forming fins so thin they could slice through drops of rain; once everything was in place, I knew my body was ready to face a world which no longer knew of songs or the warm glow of stars – a place wanting nothing of me and my human heart.
The world ended following the wrong phonecall delivered on a drunken night. Why are you with him? Said your voice over the noise, Why are you fucking with him? you kept saying so I said the truth you couldn’t and wouldn’t believe: It’s his birthday, and before I could explain anything a bottle of Bailey’s or Bacardi or Jager flew across the room, crashing into smithereens, muting out the receiver that echoed Bullshit! over and over and over as someone’s laughter filled the room.
The world ended when we answered No, closed fists, chests tightening: all those worlds within us ready, raring to spontaneously combust. Fireworks and the stench of a truth you could never forget. The wrong answer picked on purpose or, what we believed was an act of kindness.