The World Was Ending, So I Wrote This

They said it would happen gradually.

Then suddenly.

And it did.

No alien invasion. No meteors. No big-budget explosions in the sky. Just… silence, growing wider. Cities going dark. Systems breaking down like the slow unraveling of a thread you didn’t notice had frayed.

There was no warning siren. No hero to save us. Just a final news alert, a flicker on my phone that barely had signal left:

“Global systems failing. Last known transmission. Good luck.”

Good luck.

What a weird thing to say at the end of the world.

I sat at my desk, surrounded by everything that used to matter—old receipts, unfinished to-do lists, half-used candles, unopened mail, and a laptop that somehow still held power.

I stared at the screen. Blinked. Opened a blank doc.

And started to write.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

Run? Cry? Scroll through the wreckage of the internet?

No.

I wrote.

I wrote this because I wanted someone—anyone—to know what it was like.

Not the statistics. Not the timelines. Not the political blame.

But the feeling.

The weight in my chest when the silence grew louder than the news.

The way people stopped saying “see you tomorrow” and started saying “take care” like it meant something more.

I wrote about how strange it felt to be both terrified and oddly calm.

How the birds kept singing like nothing was happening.

How the sky still blushed at sunset, as if to remind us that beauty doesn’t ask permission to exist.

I wrote this because there was so much I hadn’t said.

To my brother—I forgive you. You didn’t know how to love me the way I needed. I didn’t either.

To my mother—I get it now. Every sleepless night, every soft no, every anxious hug. You were just scared of losing us. Me too.

To the people I ghosted—I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to survive myself.

And to the person I never told I loved…

I did.

Still do.

I wrote this because I realized that endings strip us down to truth.

There’s no space left for pride, pettiness, or performance.

Just raw, honest, human things.

Like:

“I’m sorry.”

“I miss you.”

“I wish I had more time.”

“I wish I had started sooner.”

“I wish I had listened.”

“I wish…”

The world was ending, and I didn’t run toward anyone.

I didn’t build a bunker or make a final call.

I just sat here, writing.

Because that’s what I’ve always done when I don’t know how to feel.

Because maybe, just maybe, someone will find this.

And maybe they’ll understand something we never did in time.

That life is borrowed.

That love should never be postponed.

That silence is louder when we avoid what we truly want to say.

If this is the last thing I ever write, let it be enough.

Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s profound.

But because it’s honest.

And that, at the end of the world, is the only thing that still feels real.

So here it is.

No edits. No rewrites. No filters.

Just a heart, trying to be heard.

Before everything goes quiet.