DOOMSDAY

Nobody believed in doomsday. Not really.

Even in January 2026, when the news started using words like “unprecedented” and “irreversible,” people still went to work, still argued in traffic, still posted jokes online. The world had learned how to ignore alarms.

I remember the last normal morning clearly.

The sun came up like it always did—soft orange light through my blinds, the sound of my neighbor’s dog barking, my phone buzzing with useless notifications. My mom was in the kitchen making coffee, complaining about prices, politicians, and everything else except the one thing everyone was avoiding.

The sky.

For weeks, scientists had been talking about the anomaly. Something massive. Something is moving too fast. First, they said it would pass. Then they said it would probably pass. Then they stopped using the word “probably.”

They never used the word impact. Not officially.

They called it Event-26.

That morning, my phone lit up with an emergency alert. No sirens. No instructions. Just one sentence:

“Remain calm and stay with your loved ones.”

That’s when fear finally felt real.

Outside, the city didn’t scream. It went quiet. No horns. No shouting. Just people standing in the street, staring up like they were waiting for God to explain himself.

The sky looked… wrong. Not dramatic. Not on fire. Just slightly darker in one spot, like a bruise forming behind the clouds.

I called my sister. No answer. Called my best friend. Straight to voicemail. The networks were choking.

My mom sat down without her coffee and said, “So this is it, huh?”

I wanted to lie. I wanted to say no. But we both knew.

Around noon, the governments finally stopped pretending. Every channel showed the same man in the same suit with the same tired eyes.

“We are facing an extinction-level event.”

Just like that. No poetry. No drama. Just a sentence that ended history.

They said we had hours—maybe less.

Some people prayed. Some people drove until the roads became parking lots. Some people laughed. Some people finally said things they’d been holding in for years.

I went to the roof.

From there, I could see the dark spot clearly now. Not a dot. Not a cloud.

A wall.

The air felt heavy, as if the world were holding its breath.

My phone buzzed. A message from my sister, finally:

“I love you. I’m not scared. Are you?”

I typed back: “A little. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Even though she wasn’t.

The first shockwave didn’t sound like an explosion. It sounded like the sky was tearing.

Buildings swayed. People fell. Somewhere far away, something enormous screamed as it broke.

And in that moment, I realized something strange.

The world wasn’t ending with chaos.

It was ending with memories.

The Second Shockwave

We thought the first one was the worst.

That was our mistake.

By the time the second shockwave came, the city was already half-dead. No power. No signals. Just fires in the distance and a sky that looked like it had been rubbed with dirty hands.

There was no warning this time.

No flash. No sound.

Just a pressure in the air—like the world suddenly took a deep breath and refused to let it go.

My ears popped. My chest tightened. Even the dust hanging in the air froze in place, like gravity had briefly forgotten what it was supposed to do.

Then the ground dropped.

Not shook. Not cracked.

Dropped.

People screamed as the street split open like paper. Cars slid into the dark. Buildings didn’t fall—they came apart, floor by floor, as if something invisible was unzipping them from the inside.

And then came the sound.

A deep, endless roar, like the planet itself was being dragged across concrete.

The shockwave didn’t move like the wind.

It moved like a wall.

Everything in front of it folded.

I saw a bus lift off the ground and twist sideways before vanishing into a cloud of dust. I saw a church tower bend like wax. I saw a man holding his child and then suddenly… only the child was still there.

I ran.

Not toward safety. There was no such thing anymore.

Just away from the noise.

The air turned hot in one second and freezing in the next. My lungs burned. Every breath tasted like metal and smoke.

Then the pressure hit.

It felt like a giant hand slapped the city flat.

I was thrown through a storefront window. Glass didn’t cut me—it sandblasted me.

For a moment, there was no sound at all.

Just silence.

Then everything came back at once.

Screaming. Fire. Sirens dying mid-cry. The crackle of buildings still collapsing.

I dragged myself up and looked at the skyline.

It wasn’t a skyline anymore.

It was a graveyard.

Where towers had been, there were stumps. Where streets had been, there were canyons. The horizon was crooked, like the Earth’s bones had shifted under its skin.

And far away, beyond the smoke, the sky was glowing again.

Not from fire.

From something else coming.

That’s when I understood.

The second shockwave wasn’t an aftershock.

It was the planet failing.

And it wasn’t done with us yet.

The Third Wave

By the time the third wave came, nobody was counting anymore.

The world had been reduced to pieces—pieces of cities, pieces of lives, pieces of memories. The sky never really got dark or light anymore. It just stayed the color of ash.

We had found shelter in what used to be a subway station. Not because it was safe. Just because it was there.

There were maybe twenty of us left. Strangers who knew each other’s breathing patterns now. Who knew who cried quietly and who cried loud. Who shared water like it was gold.

My mom sat beside me, her head on my shoulder.

“I think this is the last one,” she said softly.

She didn’t sound afraid.

I held her hand and said, “Then we’ll stay together.”

Above us, the ground began to hum.

Not shake.

Hum.

A low, endless note, like the Earth was tuning itself before breaking.

People started to pray. Others just closed their eyes.

The lights died.

And then the third wave arrived.

It wasn’t violent at first.

It was slow.

The air grew heavy. Breathing felt like pulling oxygen through water. The walls started to bend—not crack, but bend, like the world was turning soft.

Somewhere deep below, something massive shifted.

Then came the sound.

Not an explosion.

A goodbye.

The ground rose and fell like a dying chest. The ceiling split open. Light poured in—not sunlight, not fire—but something bright and quiet and endless.

I wrapped my arms around my mom.

She said, “I’m proud of you.”

I wanted to answer.

But the world was already coming apart.

For one last second, everything stopped.

No fear.

No pain.

Just stillness.

And in that stillness, I thought about normal mornings. About coffee. About stupid arguments. About the way the world used to be so loud and so alive.

Then the third wave finished what the first two had started.

And the world…

Finally rested.