The Love and the Light at the End of the World | Mileva Anastasiadou

At the end of the world, you don’t write stories. You don’t take photographs. These activities presume a future. The girl with the moon in her eyes holds an old photo in her hands, stares at it, like it’s the most valuable thing, because it is, it is now that the world is ending. She looks out of the window, this gloomy hotel room is where she’ll spend her time before the end. She throws her notebook out of the window, she watches it fall, into the sea, she hears the sound the notebook makes while hitting the waters, then silence follows, that’s how it’ll be, she thinks, a bang, then silence, that’s how the world started, that’s how it’ll end too. 

At the end of the world, work is not necessary. A job requires ambition, a future. A need for money, success, or at least food and shelter. The boy with the sun in his eyes doesn’t need the job anymore, but he’s still here. He straightens his collar before knocking the door. He wonders if the order is right. Those people are used to be served, he thinks, until the end of the world, he won’t spoil it for them. Not now. That is his sole goal. He has no time for noble ambitions. 

At the end of the world, you don’t fall in love either. A future is not required for love, but hope is. 

The girl with the moon in her eyes stares at his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, bows his head, “you didn’t order a salad.” 

She shakes her head, but takes the plate and leaves it on the table, she’s slow, no reason to hurry, she’s slow to make time last, she’s not alone, she thinks, not anymore. She walks back to the door, while he looks her in the eye, she takes his hand in her hand, she holds it tight, as she wonders if there’s still time for new stories, or noble ambitions, she wishes she hadn’t thrown away the pen, he wishes he hadn’t thrown away his dreams, the ring on her finger shines bright, it shines like the sun and the moon, a powerful light spreads, escapes the room, brightens the sky.

The moon jumps out of her eyes, his sun breaks free. They move up in the sky, aligned, a total eclipse before the end comes. The girl and the boy do not carry the world now, they are light, light as feathers, they hold hands, they are empty vessels, communicating vessels, through which love flows, flows, flows, all love that will save the world. 

“I wish we had met earlier,” she thinks, she doesn’t speak aloud, but he hears her voice coming from inside her head. 

“This is just the right time,” he says, while love flows, grows, glows, at the end of the world.

Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece. A Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work can be found in many journals, such as HAD, Ruminate, Lost Balloon, X-R-A-Y and others.