Tomorrow, the sound will cease.
You will see that I would be the last person on earth, and you may or may not decide to pass me by in that moment of concluded horror.
After we go through the tunnel where fear impends and strikes like a paper cut, bleeding only from one spot but the pain felt on many (the sudden burst of imagination, where perfectly shaped papers glide and slice us like crows), we would reach the end where although you cannot see what lies ahead of us, we still can’t move, because our fears have flown us here, to this dead end. Fear is always flying, never walking, or swimming. But you see, there is nothing to be afraid of now, really. Everyone else is dead. You just have me.
You see, the bubble wraps that we tied around each other’s neck can no longer be used for people to burst and pleasure themselves with. These bubble wraps, essentially, are us. They’ll transform from the good old pop, pop to the unbreakable ones that we have now, strictly for packaging. Strictly for packaging. The air inside these bubbles is not poisonous, but it will expand, as will the plastic material around our necks, and it will pop our eyeballs out, in the exact same fashion in which I hope I could sexually pleasure you for the last time. Your beautiful eyes which would be blood red from trying too hard.
I have thought about various outcomes that would come out of this situation that we are in; the last two people on this planet. There is no question of starting afresh, because we know each other too well. The highest possibility is that we walk past each other, and your head would suddenly turn into a pot of flowers and my hair would catch fire (you would have to be careful of not letting your flowers catch fire, as you always have been). Then there is also a possibility that we would collide into each other, kiss like the way we used to, hold hands and walk past rubbles of buildings that barely contain the souls of the hundreds of people who used to live in them, finding food off trash cans and half burnt kitchens, and we would finally go off to sleep borrowing abandoned blankets and warming ourselves near burning dead bodies.
There is also a third possibility of a confrontation.
I imagine that if we have a confrontation, it would be me who would start it. See, I am not like you. You would feel simultaneously anxious and relieved picking up lost toys and tiny anklets, but I would just be following you. I seemed to have suffered a possession breakdown; I feel like I don’t own anything until I get it only after you touch it. Everything I own has some weird way of flying in loops like fear and coming back to you, my language being one of them. I write while you create the world, giving me beautiful views of life and death while also supplying the words to describe them. But only you, only you are the one whom I have discovered, I have touched, I have created. I want to question you, devour you, and mistreat you even though you may be my creation. The creation always faces the creator, the paroxysm of wrath and joy reserved for it, the kind of responses I make in my head whenever I think of having a conversation with you, a scenario which only blooms in my imagination. But the conversation will happen, and there is one thing I can promise; you will have to face me. That is absolutely the only thing left in the world right now. You will not like it, and you will say that nothing of the past matters right now. But you will face me. Even if it is the last thing I have to do.
Two almost dried leaves flew off a tree to my right, and after they touched while still in air like butterflies, suddenly a strong gush of wind blew from my right, and the two leaves that I adored so much in the moment got blown away with a million others, with no herbivores to devour their sorry existence.