The Night We Pretended the Bombs Were Fireworks

The sirens started just after midnight.

We were on the rooftop — barefoot, cold beer in hand, wrapped in one blanket between us. The city stretched below like a quiet beast, blinking its sleepy lights at the stars. You rested your head on my shoulder, and I remember thinking, this is what peace must taste like — not in nations, but in moments.

Then came the low rumble.

Distant.

Familiar.

You looked up. “Fireworks?”

I hesitated. “Maybe.”

But we both knew they weren’t.

The war had been creeping closer for months.

Borders falling like dominos.

Cities blacking out.

Names disappearing from the news.

But here, in our corner of the world, we tried not to talk about it.

We lit candles when the power cut.

We made art out of ration boxes.

We held hands a little tighter.

Because if you name the fear, it grows teeth.

And we were tired of being afraid.

You always said you’d rather go laughing than hiding.

So that night, as the sky cracked open with sound, you pulled me to my feet and said, “Dance with me.”

I smiled. “There’s no music.”

“There’s always music,” you replied, placing my hand on your waist.

And so we danced.

Right there on the roof, with ash in the air and sirens in the wind.

You spun beneath the bloom of fire in the sky — red, then gold, then red again.

The world was falling apart, and you were dancing in the middle of it.

God, I loved you for that.

Below us, the streets were empty.

Shadows moved between buildings.

Somewhere, a dog barked once and went silent.

But we stayed.

We stayed because running meant admitting it was real.

And for a few more minutes, we wanted to pretend it wasn’t.

The news had stopped broadcasting that morning.

The last image: a map bleeding at the edges.

The last words: “We urge you to stay indoors.”

But you refused.

“We were born inside walls,” you said. “I don’t want to die in them too.”

You brought the wine.

I brought the matches.

And together we lit every candle we owned.

Rooftop cathedral.

Two believers left in a dying world.

At 1:12 a.m., the explosions grew closer.

The glass in the buildings around us shimmered like water.

Your hair flew in the wind.

And still, you laughed.

“Do you remember your tenth birthday?” you asked.

I nodded. “You gave me a sparkler and set the backyard on fire.”

You grinned. “Best cake we ever roasted.”

I smiled, even as the ground trembled beneath us.

You didn’t cry.

Not once.

Not when the first tower collapsed in the distance.

Not when the power grid failed and the city became a graveyard of stars.

Not when the first piece of debris flew past like a comet.

You just held my hand.

Tight.

Like you were trying to memorize the shape of it.

At 2:04 a.m., we kissed.

Not out of panic, or desperation.

But slowly.

Deliberately.

Like a goodbye folded in silk.

I tasted ash on your lips.

Or maybe it was mine.

I remember you whispering, “We deserved more time.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I just rested my forehead against yours and counted your breaths.

One.

Two.

Three.

The world was ending, but your breath was still steady.

And that meant something.

At 2:17, the sky turned white.

The kind of white that erases everything.

We didn’t look away.

We stared straight into it.

Not because we were brave.

But because we were too tired to be anything else.

The blast never came.

At least not then.

The sky dimmed.

The silence deepened.

And somewhere in that silence, we knew we had been spared—for now.

We sat back down, legs tangled beneath the blanket.

Your fingers found mine again.

Still warm.

Still real.

I turned to you.

“Next time,” I said, “let’s go to the sea.”

You smiled. “Even if the sea is on fire?”

“Especially then.”

At 3:03 a.m., the sky lit up once more.

But this time, there were no sirens.

No sounds.

Just silent bursts of red, orange, blue — like fireworks in a forgotten world.

I didn’t know if they were real.

Or if we were dreaming.

But you whispered, “Look.”

So I looked.

And I saw the reflection of that light in your eyes.

And I believed in it.

Some say the world ended that night.

Maybe it did.

But if it did, then let the history books write this:

We danced.

We laughed.

We held on when everything else let go.

And for one perfect hour,

we pretended the bombs were fireworks.