He walked up to me the other night, asking if I wanted to see the destruction of the world. I said "sure", partly out of curiosity.

We took the first rocket, our flimsy, fragile space suits masking everything, so he never saw the fear and wonder in my face and eyes. And happiness. His suit fit him perfectly, but mine was a size too large. Or a size too small. It's hard to remember.

And we reached the moon in such a short amount of time. It seemed like minutes, but it wasn't before I knew it. It was after I knew it. After I touched ground, weightless, the vast nothingness and black of it all. The moon was gray, dull, devoid of romantic misconceptions. It was what it was.

And so we stood there. We would have eaten popcorn and snacks but I wasn't hungry. The anxiety and anticipation and quiet excitement was visible in my every movement, every step. But he just stood there, calm; he would have been smirking. At least that's how I imagine it.

And so we watched the Earth become nothing but grains of salt and sand and tuna fish. It was quieter than I had expected. No explosions or asteroids or giant lizard creatures. One minute it was there and then it was gone.

He laughed. I could hear it in my head, his laughter. And I understood. I understood why he wasn't shaking as much as myself, why his suit fit so perfectly, the lack of fear. He had seen this happen before. He had seen Earth become a nothing before, multiple times.

So here we are, on the moon, eating tuna fish. He asks me if I want to see everything become whole again. I say "sure", partly out of curiosity. Partly because I believe that things will be whole.

But hey, that's what friends are for.