The sky above you is red. Not with sunset — but with warning. There’s something ending.

Something neither of you can stop. He stands across from you, lit by streetlight and smoke, and says nothing at first. Just stares like he’s memorizing your face for the last time.

“Said you’d run from this beautiful world,” he finally says. His voice is barely more than a breath. “But you didn’t. You stayed.”

You don’t know how to answer. So you don’t.

He steps closer, pain flickering in his eyes like something trying not to fall apart.

“I know your scars,” he murmurs. “Even the ones you try to smile over. I know them.”

There’s fire in the distance. Sirens. The world feels like it’s breaking apart — maybe always was.

But you’re both here, in the middle of it, still choosing each other for just one more second.

“Even if it’ll all burn up in the end,” he says, stepping even closer, “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

The words don’t feel like a confession.

They feel like a goodbye.

Your hand reaches for his — without thinking, without fear. Because if the world’s going to end, you want to be holding him when it does.

“We’re crossing a burning world,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “And there’s no destination.”

He closes his eyes. “But no one can stop the time. I know.”

The silence stretches. You feel the wind shift. The heat rising. The night swallowing light. And then— He says it. Not like a promise. More like a prayer.

“Maybe.”