He came to me the other night. He asked, "Do you want to see the end of the world?"
"Sure," I said. I was curious.
We took the first rocket. Our space suits were flimsy and fragile. They masked everything. He never saw the fear or wonder in my eyes. He never saw the happiness.
His suit fit him perfectly in all the right places. Mine was a size too large or a size too small. It's hard to remember.
We reached the moon in minutes. I took my first step. I was weightless. I was taken by the nothingness and black of it all.
The moon itself was gray and dull. It was devoid of romantic misconceptions. It was what it was.
We stared up at Earth. He looked at his watch. He wanted popcorn and snacks.
I wasn't hungry. Every movement showed anxiety. Every step showed anticipation and excitement. He stood calm. He would have been smirking. At least that's how I imagine it.
We watched the Earth become nothing but grains of salt, sand, and tuna fish. It was quieter than I'd expected. No explosions or asteroids or giant lizard creatures. One minute it was there. Then it wasn't.
He laughed. I could hear it in my head. And I understood. I understood why he wasn't shaking as much as I was. I understood why his suit fit. I understood his lack of fear.
He had seen the Earth become nothing before. Maybe multiple times.
We're still on the moon, eating tuna fish. "Do you want to see everything become whole again?" he asks.
I say, "sure." I'm curious. Part of me even believes things will be whole and the Earth will be there again.
But that's what friends are for.
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