Sharon was having a bad day, a really, really bad day. The only consolation was that so was everyone else on Earth. Aisles of endless packages stretched out all around me, destined never to reach their buyers. The loudspeakers crackled overhead, a strained voice cutting through the clamor, announcing what they called an ‘emergency weather event.’ I rolled my eyes corporate always had a knack for understatements, especially with an asteroid hurtling towards Earth.

  I rushed out of the Amazon warehouse, sirens blaring in the background, merging with the chaos that echoed through the entire city. People were panicking, fleeing in all directions, as news of the ‘catastrophic asteroid’ buzzed incessantly on everyone’s phones and radios.

  The scene was nothing short of apocalyptic. Cars honked incessantly as people scrambled in every direction. The sun was just setting, casting an eerie glow on the rapidly fracturing asteroid in the evening sky. Everyone knew where they wanted to be when the world ended, and it definitely wasn’t stuck in traffic.

  Funny, I thought, how amidst the prospect of world-ending doom, my biggest worry was making it home in time to slip into my most comfortable pajamas before we all died. There was something absurdly comforting about the idea of meeting the end in a familiar place, curled up on my couch with a hot cup of coffee and a good book, the kind of mundane evening I’d often taken for granted.

  As I maneuvered through the crowd, dodging elbows and anxious shouts, the reality of the situation began to sink in. I needed to get home, fast. Outside was pandemonium, an endless stream of car alarms, screaming, and sirens wailing. People ran in every direction, desperate to escape a fate we all knew couldn’t be outrun. The familiar buzz of my phone offered a fleeting distraction; it was just another alert from the emergency broadcast system, urging everyone to find shelter immediately. I glanced at the message and snorted. Shelter? From a rock the size of Texas? I silenced the notification and stuffed my phone into my pocket.

  A man in a business suit shoved past me, his tie flapping wildly as he sprinted toward a car. Another guy, some college kid in a hoodie, was trying to hotwire a motorcycle right there on the curb. The usual rules of society were dissolving fast. I stared for a moment, rooted in place, my pulse thumping painfully in my chest. A woman in a business suit sprinted past, one high heel in her hand. I weaved through the madness, past a group of teenagers raiding a convenience store. One of them, a scrawny kid with a backwards cap, was holding a six-pack of beer in one hand and a box of Pop-Tarts in the other.

  "End of the world, baby!" he shouted, tossing a can to his friend.

  I ran to my car, dodging clusters of panicked people. Cars sped wildly past, weaving and colliding in reckless desperation. Somewhere in the distance, smoke rose across the horizon. As I fumbled with my keys, I found myself absurdly worried about getting into a fender bender. Like my insurance premiums would matter after today.

  I pulled onto the road, fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel. Traffic rules were a distant memory. An SUV flew past me, slamming headlong into a lamp post. I took a sharp breath, weaving through the madness, fighting an urge to laugh hysterically. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined humanity’s final day. Movies always made it seem more heroic, less pathetic.

  Knowing the end was coming, here I was, heading home. Like a pile of comfy blankets could shield me from planetary destruction. Maybe humanity was fundamentally ridiculous. Or maybe that was just me. But if I was about to be vaporized by cosmic rubble, it was going to happen in my favorite sweatpants.

  I swerved to avoid a cluster of pedestrians who had taken to the highway on foot, their faces etched with a mix of determination and despair. It struck me just how human the whole scene was our instinct to survive, to keep moving even when there seemed to be no safe place to move to. Scrambling like panicked ants under the shadow of impending doom.

  Finally, after what felt like an age, my building came into view. I parked haphazardly by the curb, my usual spot taken by an overturned motorcycle.

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  Another siren wailed in the distance, and I glanced up at the sky. The asteroid was bigger now, clearer. Pieces were already trailing off, breaking into fiery streaks as they entered the atmosphere. It was happening. I bolted up the steps to my apartment building and jammed my key into the front door, shoving it open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

  Inside, the lobby was eerily quiet. The front desk was abandoned. Someone had left a suitcase by the elevator, its contents spilling onto the floor. Someone had left in a hurry.

  I punched the button for the elevator, but nothing happened. Fine. Stairs it is. I took the steps two at a time, my breath coming fast, my heart hammering. I wasn’t even sure why I was rushing, like the asteroid was anxiously waiting for me to get home before it hit.

  I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of home washing over me. It was absurd, the normality of it all, my keys hanging by the door, the stack of unopened mail on the hall table. I kicked off my shoes and walked through to the kitchen. I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, my movements automatic. Then I slumped down on the sofa, pulling a blanket over my legs.

  Outside, the noise continued, distant yet constant. But in here, it was just me, my thoughts, and the ticking of the clock on the wall. I pulled out my phone, scrolling through messages from friends and family goodbyes, heart emojis, a few panicked questions about whether I had a plan. I didn’t. No plan, just pajamas and the prospect of a hot cup of coffee.

  As the kettle began to whistle, signaling it was time to get up, a part of me wanted to ignore it. To just sit here and let whatever was going to happen, happen. But I stood up, my legs stiff, and made my way to the kitchen. I prepared my coffee with care, each step a tiny rebellion against the chaos of the day.

  Mug in hand, I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The city was alight with the eerie glow of emergency vehicles and sporadic fires. It was a disaster movie come to life, and here I was, a solitary audience member watching the final scenes unfold.

  I sipped my coffee, its warmth a small comfort against the cool glass of the window. “Well, Sharon,” I whispered to myself, “at least you got your last cup.”

  And then, in the silence of my apartment, with the world ending outside, I began to laugh. Not because anything was funny, but because there was nothing else to do but face the end with a grim sort of acceptance.

  I tugged the curtains shut, blocking out the surreal disaster scene playing out in real-time outside my window. It felt like severing a connection with the outside world, with its chaos and impending doom, and for a brief moment, my apartment felt almost normal.

  no sense torturing myself with the view any longer and settled onto the sofa. Grabbing the remote, I clicked the TV on, immediately assaulted by the barrage of news anchors tripping over their words in barely contained hysteria.

  “Reports are now confirmed,” a harried anchorwoman was saying, eyes wide and mascara smudged, her voice thin and brittle. “Scientists tracking the asteroid estimate impact in under six hours,”

  I muted her for a moment, letting my head fall back against the cushion. Six hours. Was it weird I felt relieved? The world was ending, and I had six hours left. Not six minutes, not instant obliteration, six whole hours. That was an eternity. A long enough stretch to overthink, to regret, to panic. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to do yet. I unmuted the TV.

  “Trajectory suggests multiple fragments will impact across North America, Europe, and parts of Asia. The largest piece, estimated at over three miles wide, is expected to land somewhere in the Pacific Ocean…”

  “Good evening, and welcome to the end of the world,” I muttered bitterly, raising my mug in salute. “We’re glad you could join us.”

  “Authorities recommend remaining indoors,” the newswoman continued, voice strained but forcibly calm, “sheltering in place is the best option. Remain calm, stay with loved ones. Authorities continue to urge everyone not to panic.”

  “Sure, stay calm, because when we’re all ash, I definitely want my neighbors to think I handled this gracefully,” The laugh track in my head mocked me mercilessly, the apocalypse comedy special starring Sharon Cummings, broadcasting live to an audience of one.

  I rubbed at my eyes, feeling fatigue set in. The adrenaline crash was hitting me hard, turning my arms and legs to lead. The silence of my apartment felt oddly comforting. If the end had to come, this was as good a place as any to wait it out. I’d spent years carving out this tiny bubble of peace, this sanctuary where bills and reality television marathons seemed the worst of life’s concerns. Even if the illusion had been shattered, the familiar surroundings soothed me.

  The anchorwoman was interviewing some scientist who looked like he’d aged fifty years since breakfast.

  “So, doctor,” she stammered, her voice cracking slightly, “can anything be done at this point? Is there any hope?”