She

“You’re waiting for a miracle.”
“I’m waiting for you.”
“I’m not coming.”

I replayed the scene in my head. She bid farewell to me as if the thought suddenly popped into her head. She spoke, words falling from her lips softly, and I swear I heard them thud on the ground with full force. They scratched through my skin and clawed at my heart. These were short, but not sweet words. They left a bitter feeling and a permanent stamp.

Yet I had hoped, I hoped with all my might that the blazing sun above us would stop melting the creatures we called ours, that the waters would stop drowning everything we had. That the flames would stop burning. That the Earth would stop swallowing us in hatred and agony.

But she wouldn’t. She refused to hope, she refused to believe.

Instead, she would just laugh at me, at my hope. I told her we would make it. I told her that we would be fine, we could make it out alive. I told her we could survive this madness, and she replied with the roll of her hazel eyes. I spoke to her words, yet mine were never heard.

If only she had listened, she would be here with me now. Instead of being engulfed in the flames below me, she would be beside me. She would be here, with me right now, and we would watch the world burn. She would be here, she would be safe.

And, in the most absurd way, I can hear her tell me that I was right. I can hear her call for me. I can hear her asking me to save her, to come back for her. To take her with me.

But I’m not coming.

Katya Tjahaja