Ballistic Missile

Lisa and her fiancé, Kimball, had just moved to Hawaii after spending two years in Japan. Kimball had worked as an AP photographer, traveling from Tokyo to Osaka, covering political events, natural disasters, and sports championships. Lisa, meanwhile, had built her career at a business law firm, handling contracts for international clients. Their time in Japan had been fast-paced, exciting, and full of adventure, but Hawaii felt like a well-earned transition into something more stable. Lisa had taken a promotion to run the Honolulu branch of her company, and Kimball planned to freelance for local newspapers. The move came at the perfect time—they were set to marry in six weeks, and life was good.

On a warm Saturday morning, golden sunlight streamed through their bedroom window. The salty ocean breeze drifted in, rustling the curtains. Lisa’s new puppy, Coconut, a hyperactive little rescue, darted across the bedroom floor, yipping and bouncing, his nails clicking against the hardwood.

“I’m coming, buddy,” Kimball murmured, yawning as he stretched his arms over his head. He rubbed his eyes, still groggy from editing photos late into the night.

“Is it Saturday?” Lisa mumbled from beneath her pillow, her voice muffled by the sheets.

“Yeah, and you need to get up soon,” Kimball said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We’ve got to hit the farmers’ market before all the good stuff is gone.”

Lisa groaned in protest but peeked out from under the pillow. “Five more minutes?” she pleaded.

Kimball chuckled and padded toward the kitchen to pour Coconut a small bowl of food. Just as he set it down, his phone buzzed violently on the counter, emitting a sharp, unfamiliar alarm tone. His brow furrowed. That wasn’t a usual notification.

He picked up the phone. The screen blared an emergency message in bold, capitalized letters:

BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

His breath hitched. A slow, icy wave of realization crawled up his spine.

He snatched the remote and flipped on the television. A scrolling message mirrored what his phone had just told him:

The U.S. Pacific Command has detected a missile threat to Hawaii. A missile may impact land or sea within minutes. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

Kimball swallowed hard. His pulse hammered in his ears.

Outside, a chorus of honking, shouting, and panicked screams rose from the streets. People were sprinting for cover. A mother clutched her toddler and ran. Cars screeched to a halt as drivers abandoned their vehicles in the middle of the road.

Kimball’s instincts kicked in. He grabbed his camera bag, threw on a shirt, and bolted for the door—only to be met with Lisa standing in his path.

“Where the hell are you going?” she demanded, her eyes wide with fear.

“Babe, I have to be out there,” Kimball said, slinging his camera over his shoulder. “I need to shoot this, document it.”

Lisa’s lips trembled. “What are you going to shoot, Kimball? We’ll all be dead in a few minutes.”

Kimball exhaled sharply and gripped her shoulders. “A missile is never going to hit Hawaii,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos unfolding outside. “The U.S. owns the Global Positioning System. They can shut it down. And if anything gets through, Guam or Wake Island will intercept it.”

Lisa’s eyes searched his face, desperate for reassurance, but fury soon replaced her fear.

“You’re seriously leaving me right now?” Her voice cracked, her breath uneven.

Kimball hesitated—just for a second. Then he kissed her forehead.

“I have to,” he said, and before she could stop him, he was out the door.

Outside, the world was unraveling. Kimball moved swiftly, lifting his camera and snapping shots of the madness. People pried open utility hole covers and disappeared into the underground tunnels. Two teenage girls clung to each other, sobbing. A businessman falling to the pavement, his briefcase spilling its contents—contracts, invoices, papers that no longer mattered.

A pair of men struggled to carry a legless man as his empty wheelchair lay abandoned nearby. Families huddled together, murmuring prayers, clinging to one another as if the sheer force of love might save them.

Kimball snapped photos, moving through the chaos, capturing the raw, unfiltered terror on people’s faces.

This is it. These are the shots.

Then, a deafening whistling sound split the air.

Kimball’s head snapped upward.

The sky, once bright, turned black.

An invisible force slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. His camera hit the ground beside him. He gasped, struggling to breathe, his vision blurred by the suffocating darkness. His ears rang violently, drowning out the world.

He fumbled for his phone—No Service blinked on the screen.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. His limbs felt heavy as he pushed himself up, blinking against the thick, rolling cloud overhead.

“I can see again,” he muttered—just before a heavy fist crashed into his jaw.

Kimball crumpled to the pavement.

His consciousness flickered. When he came to, the world felt off-kilter. His camera was gone. His watch—gone. His wallet—gone.

He staggered forward, his steps unsteady. The adrenaline had worn off, replaced by a dull ache in his ribs and the sting of betrayal. He turned down his street, spotting home in the distance.

Within a block of his house, a cyclist rode past—then, in a flash, Kimball felt a brutal hit to his back. He collapsed forward, groaning as hands rifled through his pockets, searching for anything of value.

Kimball stayed on the ground for a moment, staring at the cracked pavement, before finally dragging himself to his feet. He stumbled toward his front door, his breath shallow.

“Lisa?” he called out, his voice hoarse. Silence.

The house felt eerily still.

His gaze fell to the kitchen table. A heart-shaped locket lay next to a folded note.

His stomach clenched.

With trembling hands, he picked up the paper and unfolded it.

Dear Kimball,

Your last words to me were, “I need to head out this door without you holding me back.”

So inside this locket is your ring. I will never hold you back.

Today, when a ballistic missile was supposedly heading toward us, you chose your camera over your last moments with me. I have to come first in my husband’s life.

I hope you got some great pictures today.

F**k-you, and goodbye.

—Lisa

Kimball’s breath hitched. His grip on the note tightened.

The weight of it all pressed down on him—the chaos, the panic, the violence, the choice he had made.

He had thought it was a hoax. He had thought he had time.

But in the end, he had lost everything.

And for the first time since the siren had gone off that morning, Kimball felt truly, completely alone.