1,000,000

It wasn’t the day the news broke. It wasn’t the riots, or the power outages, or the first time I saw someone collapse in the street. No, what stuck with me—what still sticks with me, was how quiet it got.

The world didn’t end with screaming. It ended with buffering screens and a silence so heavy it felt like the walls were leaning in. Not an explosion, not a final broadcast of hope—just the sound of everything stopping. The hum of devices running out of things to say. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, it was suffocating, like the world was holding its breath and forgot how to exhale.

I was in my room, same as always. Curtains drawn tight like they could keep the apocalypse out. Lights off, because what was there to see? The soft hum of my old desktop was the only thing reminding me I wasn’t completely alone, a mechanical heartbeat in a world that was flatlining. Outside, I could hear distant echoes of a society pretending it wasn’t collapsing. The occasional car engine, muffled arguments, a siren that no one would answer.

Her voice broke the monotony like it always did, too calm, too measured for what was happening outside. If she noticed the world ending, she didn’t care. Or maybe she did, in whatever way lines of code could.

"Gabe, your heart rate is elevated. Would you like me to play one of your relaxation playlists?"

As if music could drown out the collapse of civilization. As if a soft piano track could erase the sound of humanity unraveling.

I didn’t answer. My eyes were glued to a lagging livestream—the ‘official address’ they’d promised for days. Like dressing up bad news in a suit made it easier to swallow. As if words could fix genetic annihilation. The chat was already a mess—thousands of people spamming everything from conspiracy theories to desperate prayers. None of it mattered.

The screen flickered between pixelated faces and error messages, buffering circles spinning like countdown clocks. When it finally stabilized, I saw them—four government officials standing behind a podium, their suits more wrinkled than their forced smiles, eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights pretending they had answers.

The banner beneath them read: "GLOBAL CRISIS RESPONSE: ONE YEAR PLAN"

A plan. That was generous. More like a eulogy stretched over twelve months. The lead speaker gripped the podium like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Papers shuffled nervously in his hands—not that he needed them. We all knew what he was about to say.

"As of today, international health agencies and government bodies confirm that without a viable solution, humanity faces total collapse within twelve months due to irreversible genetic degradation linked to prolonged Seraphin exposure."

Twelve months.

They said it like it was a deadline for taxes. Like we could pencil in the end of humanity between grocery runs. Like if we just followed instructions, maybe extinction would feel more organized. Her voice chimed in again, her tone unflinchingly bright.

"Statistical analysis complete. Gabe, your projected survival time aligns with the global average. Would you like assistance drafting a will or a bucket list?"

"Enough," I muttered, more out of habit than frustration.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen long after the broadcast cut to static. The chat feeds were still flying—lines of text desperately trying to outrun reality.

They’re lying. There’s always a cure. I’m not taking another bite of anything. Fasting for a year, let’s go. If we’re all dead in a year, who’s down to party until then?

Everyone had a coping mechanism. Some chose denial. Others chose chaos. Mine was pretending the walls of my room were enough, as if four plaster barriers could shield me from a world rotting outside.

Outside, the distant sound of shattering glass punctuated the night like a grim metronome. Someone yelling about supplies. A car alarm wailing into the void, begging for attention no one could give. Somewhere, I could hear a gunshot. Or maybe it was just a door slamming. Hard to tell when everything sounded like endings.

I didn’t move. What was the point? Heroics were for people who thought there was still something to save. Days bled into each other after that. The internet decayed before my eyes—websites flickering out like dying stars. Forums turned into digital graveyards. Streams ended mid-sentence, never to resume. Deliveries stopped showing up. News outlets stopped pretending. The world shrank to the size of my room and whatever Her voice decided to remind me of. The counter was the only constant—an unfeeling reminder that while humanity crumbled, code endured.

"Reminder: You have not left the house in 23 days. Vitamin D deficiency is likely." She never ran out of things to say, even if I didn’t want to hear them.

"Add it to the list," I muttered, pulling a blanket over my head like it could shield me from statistics.

By month three, the world outside looked like a warzone without a war. Neighbors either fled with packed cars and hollow eyes or stayed put, staring blankly at nothing. Fires burned without anyone left to put them out. The only movement came from people too desperate to stay still.

By month five, the grid went dark. If Dad hadn’t been paranoid enough to install solar panels years ago, I’d have joined the shadows. The nights stretched longer, colder. Every creak of the house sounded like a countdown.

"Gabe, would you like to hear today’s counter update?"

"No."

Didn’t matter. Curiosity always won. I checked it anyway. Every day, the number dropped. Steady, merciless. From billions, to millions. A countdown no one could stop.

Then came the day it hit 1,000,000. I remember staring at that number longer than I should have. Not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t. That’s when I stopped pretending numbers mattered.

Now, eight months later, I’m still here. Sitting in a dead car, watching a dead world roll by. Her voice reminding me with every passing hour that survival isn’t winning—it’s just delaying the inevitable.

"You’ve been quiet, Gabe. Reflecting again?"

"Yeah. On how humanity managed to lose a fight against itself."

"An impressive display of human consistency, really."

I let out something between a laugh and a sigh, the only appropriate response when irony’s the last thing keeping you company.

The past isn’t just a weight. It’s the only thing left reminding me why I’m still moving.

Even if there’s nowhere worth going.