A star. A star and a piece of rock hurtling toward it. Hurtling toward it at an angle. An angle just right. An angle ages old. An angle that spells doom.
A glass. A glass with too much ice. Diluted whiskey doesn’t hit the spot like I need it to, and the condensation makes the glass slide around in my hand. But at least my other hand isn’t empty.
Your hand. Your hand fills my other hand, and we sip our drinks on what could be the last night of our lives. But who else would I want to be with?
If I had it all to do over again, even if somehow we’d caused this, I’d still make the same choices, down to the smallest one, so that your hand would still be in mine.
A flash. Across a dark sky, burning itself into our atmosphere.
A flash to make a wish upon. A hand to place a kiss upon in my last moments.