A tiny point. Nothing.

Matter began to expand.

Galaxies formed and died. In a beautiful and non-remarkable spiral galaxy, a strange thing called “life” happened on a little blue planet.

Cells formed, divided. Invertebrates emerged. A strange adaptation, a creature which excreted milk to feed its young, adapted to ever-changing climate. One kind learned to climb trees, to walk on two legs, to make tools, to make fire, to make war, to cultivate the land. Then came me, and you.

Just a blip in this story, you are. But not to me. To me, yours is the only story that matters. Once you were gone, I didn’t have the will to live. But I did not die.

Men went to the stars. Then they made war in spectacular ways, and the little spiral galaxy was quiet again, but for me, spared, alone.

I watched the galaxies fall apart slowly. I watched the last light of the last star fade.

I hardly noticed as it all began to shrink again.

To a tiny point, to nothing.

I wished for you to come back to me.

Matter began to expand.