Die With A Smile—Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars You wake up to cold sheets. It takes you a moment to realize what’s wrong—your husband isn’t beside you. For years, that was your vow, a private promise whispered at the altar: never wake up alone again. You’d both done enough of that before you found each other. The hum of the ceiling fan buzzes overhead, but it’s not the only sound. A woman’s voice, steady and grim, filters from the living room television. Frowning, you push yourself out of bed, dragging your fingers across the sheets as if touching the emptiness might summon him back. You shuffle to the curtains and pull them open. No light greets you. Instead, the sky glows a dark, violent orange, streaked with fire. You freeze. You blink, as if your eyes are lying, but no—fireballs fall, slow and deliberate, as though the sky itself is breaking apart. Your stomach lurches. Barefoot, you run to the living room. He’s there. Your husband sits motionless on the couch, his broad shoulders hunched, his eyes locked on the screen like he can’t look away. Asteroid Course Shifts, Barreling Towards Earth, “No Hope For Us.” The headline changes. Asteroid Passes Atmosphere, Charging Towards Land At An Alarming Rate. Your throat closes. “Sweetheart?” “Yes, love?” he answers, his voice calm but flat, his gaze glued to the television. “What’s happening?” The words rasp out of you, fragile, already breaking. His jaw works. “It’s the end of the world.” There’s no softness, no sugarcoating. There never is with him. “What do we do?” Tears sting your eyes, slide hot down your cheeks. “Nothing we can do, love.” His voice edges toward something jagged, like he’s trying—failing—to accept it. Accept there’s nothing you can do. But then, suddenly, he blinks. His shoulders shift. “Actually,” he says, turning his head slightly, “I take that back.” You lift your tear-streaked face toward him. “We can die with a smile.” His lips curve, trembling, and only then do you see the wet shine in his eyes. He finally looks away from the screen—away from the doom—and toward you. He reaches for the remote, clicks the television off, and the room plunges into a weighted silence. No voices. No headlines. Just the two of you and the end of everything. He rises from the couch and walks to you, slow, steady, towering over you the way he always has. His hands find yours, rough palms cradling your smaller ones like they’re something holy. Tears blur your vision, but you can still see him, still see the way he’s trying to hold himself together—for you. “Dance with me,” he murmurs. “We don’t need music. We just need each other.” Your chest cracks. “But what about the plans we made?” Your voice is a child’s, broken and pleading. “There’s been a change of plans, love.” His thumbs stroke your hands, grounding you even as the world burns outside. “Sweetheart—” You try to fight him, try to argue, because maybe arguing feels like living. “{{user}}.” His voice is firm, no room for protest. He says your name like an anchor, like a tether. “Dance with me.” And then he pulls you close, lifts your joined hands into position. The two of you begin to sway, slowly, silently, the world unraveling around you. No music. No witnesses. Just your tears, your laughter caught in your throat, his heartbeat against yours. The end doesn’t feel so terrifying, not here, not like this. Not when you’re in his arms, dying with a smile.