The Last Sip Before the Unknown

The bar was the kind of place where time felt like an afterthought—where neon signs buzzed with exhaustion and the only people left were those with nowhere else to be. A dive on the edge of the city, the edge of existence, where the music was low, the whiskey was strong, and the weight of the world felt a little lighter—for a while.

I sat at the counter, fingers tracing the rim of my glass. It was full, untouched. The ice had melted, watering down the burn, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to drink. I was here because I had nowhere else to be. Because the past week had stretched me thin, and the silence in my head was starting to scream. Because I couldn't sleep, and the only thing that seemed real was the feeling of waiting—for something, for nothing, for her.

Then he sat down next to me.

No sound. No warning. Just there, like he’d always been. Like he belonged in the seat beside me, like he had waited long enough.

I turned my head slowly. He wasn’t anything special. No black cloak, no sickle. Just a man. A presence. But the air shifted when he arrived, the room tilted ever so slightly.

"Finish your drink," he said, his voice smooth, almost bored. "It’s time to go."

I glanced at my glass, then at him. He had the kind of face you’d forget if you looked away for too long, the kind that blurred at the edges of memory. But his eyes—they were sharp, knowing. They had seen things. Maybe everything.

I let out a quiet, dry chuckle. "Let’s go."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you’re not even gonna finish that?"

I pushed the glass away. "Nah," I muttered. "I’ve been drowning in my sorrows for too long. Let me burn in them now."

For a moment, he just stared at me. Then—something strange. Not amusement, not sympathy. Just recognition. Like he understood. Like he had heard those words before. Maybe from better men than me.

"Alright," he said, standing up. "Let’s go, then."

I followed. Not out of fear. Not out of surrender. But because, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t running.

P.S. She wouldn’t like this. She’d tell me I was being dramatic, that I had too much to live for. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I just needed to hear her voice before I walked through that door. Maybe, if she was here, I wouldn’t be leaving at all.