Fictional Collection 

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our undoing is nigh, written in the quiet margins of every choice left unmade and every warning left unheard, a slow unraveling woven through ordinary days and restless nights, gathering weight in the background while the world pretends not to notice, a prophecy scribbled in half-finished plans and abandoned promises, in the soft resignation of those who have learned to look away, and in the brittle laughter that tries to drown out the low hum of approaching consequence; it lingers in the pauses between conversations, in the headlines skimmed and quickly forgotten, in the small cruelties excused as necessity, and in the comforts clung to as if they were shields against the inevitable, until the quiet becomes a roar and the margins become the story, and all that was postponed comes home to claim its due, revealing how every deferred decision was a thread pulled from the same fragile fabric, how every silence was a vote cast in favor of the coming collapse, and how the familiar rituals of distraction and denial were only ever temporary shelters built on eroding ground, so that when the reckoning finally arrives it feels less like an intrusion and more like the long-delayed conclusion of a tale that has been told in whispers all along, etched into the background of commutes and calendars, of polite nods and forced smiles, waiting for the moment when pretense can no longer hold and the cost of looking away must at last be paid in full