I remember that night in bits and pieces, which makes sense, because the world was breaking too.

It was a Thursday. It always is.

 

Earlier, a big man in a big office, fear dripping from his fingertips, had sent an email. Abandon, he said, Retreat. I felt his fear buzzing in my pocket.

 

In the wake of the email, Colby unraveled like severed twine––with ends hastily retied. I wasn’t sure who tied the knot, but it wasn’t made to last.

 

Eight hours later, my room held a nervous kind of party. People always get nervous with Endings. She’s the authority no one wants to confront.

 Several drinks in, though, and we had our destination: the observatory.

Maybe we wanted to climb above the madness. Maybe we sought council with the stars. After all, it was too late for this one.

 

I remember their drunk footsteps, pounding down the stairs ahead of me. The leaders wouldn’t look back, I knew, so I lingered on the landing. He turned, and for once, we were the same height.

I swear, he tasted like oxygen.

 

Outside, the cold air felt different, like an invitation. It crackled on my skin. “Don’t miss them before they’re gone,” Endings instructed, “don’t mourn until it’s over.” And who was I, to deny her. The seven of us headed up the hill.

 

I remember my feet slipping on ice as I ran. My lungs burned, and I thought, this is it, the virus already has me. And it did, in a way. It had us all.

 

I wasn’t the first to reach the observatory. Boys are always faster, and I always forget it. They clambered onto the roof, and I waited beneath, arms raised for levitation. Hands pulled me up, so effortlessly it seemed, as if I was just a ghost of someone left behind.

 

Atop the observatory, I didn’t even look at the stars. The bodies around me were too distracting.

I swear, we glowed differently in the dark.

 

I remember reality was crumbling away, making room for something new. And I watched the pieces

raining

down.