The End We Chose

The sky cracked open like shattered glass. Purple lightning clawed across the horizon, and the earth trembled beneath crumbling cities. Towers that once touched the clouds fell like sandcastles under a child’s hand. It wasn’t sudden—not really. The end had been coming for years. We just chose to look away.

I stood on the roof of a half-collapsed building, watching the firestorm spread across what was once the heart of the city. Ash rained from above like black snowflakes, coating my hair, my skin, my memories. In the distance, I could still hear faint cries—people who thought they could outrun the end.

But there’s no outrunning this.

“We did this,” whispered Mara beside me. Her voice was hoarse, as if the smoke had already buried itself in her lungs. She didn’t look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon where the ocean boiled and steam rose like the breath of some ancient monster.

“We didn’t listen,” I said. My voice cracked. “All those warnings. The protests. The scientists. Even the children screaming at us to change.”

Mara laughed bitterly. It wasn’t the sound of joy but of resignation. “Change is hard. Destroying is easy.”

I wanted to tell her we weren’t all to blame. That some of us fought, screamed, and bled to stop this. But the words died in my throat. Because deep down, I knew she was right. Even those of us who cared didn’t do enough.

The world didn’t end in a single flash of nuclear fire or an asteroid strike from deep space. No, our end came slowly—like a cancer we refused to treat until it was too late. First came the droughts, then the floods, then the wars over food and water. When the power grids fell, the world turned on itself. And now nature was finishing what we started.

“I wonder if anyone will remember us,” Mara said quietly.

“Who’s left to remember?”

Silence stretched between us.

Below, in the streets, the last desperate humans scavenged and fought, clinging to scraps of existence. I could see a child—barely six, hair matted with dirt—staring up at the blackened sky. She looked so small. So lost.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek, carving a clean line through the ash.

We weren’t supposed to end this way.

Mara sat down on the edge of the roof. Her legs dangled loosely over the side, and for a terrifying moment, I thought she might just let herself fall. But she stayed still, staring into the chaos.

“You know what’s funny?” she murmured.

“What?”

“They warned us about monsters—aliens, zombies, killer robots. But the real monster was us. Always us.”

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even have the strength to disagree.

Somewhere below, a building groaned as its supports gave way. It collapsed in a roar of fire and dust.

“It’s so quiet now,” I said.

Mara shook her head. “No. You’re just used to the noise. This… this is the world dying.”

The ground quaked again. A fissure opened in the street below, swallowing cars and people alike. The child I’d seen moments ago was gone.

For the first time, I envied her.

I sat down beside Mara. The air was thick, hot, and choking. Breathing felt like trying to swallow knives.

“Do you think…” I began, but my voice trailed off.

“Do I think what?”

“That anything will grow again? That the earth can heal?”

She didn’t answer.

Above us, the clouds boiled red and orange.

Perhaps in a thousand years, the earth would sprout green again, reclaiming the ruins we left behind. Perhaps some new species would rise, one wiser than us. Or maybe the planet would remain barren forever—a tombstone floating in space.

But we wouldn’t be here to see it.

Mara leaned her head on my shoulder. Her skin was warm, too warm. Fever, or maybe just the heat of the burning world.

“Do you regret it?” I asked.

She closed her eyes. “I regret nothing I did. Only everything I didn’t.”

I took her hand. The earth shuddered again.

Somewhere deep inside, I prayed—not for us, not for salvation, but for forgiveness.

We chose this.

And now there was nothing left but ash, fire, and silence.