wildscape. literary journal

The World Isn’t Ending Tonight
by Nour Shtayyeh

We boil pasta at midnight, barefoot on cool tile, the hum of the fridge our only background music. You chop garlic with slow precision, letting the cloves breathe a little before tossing them in the pan. The olive oil sings quietly, like it knows not to wake the neighbors. Steam fogs the windows, but we don’t notice. We’re talking about old cartoons, first crushes, the way time feels different at night. You say you’ve been dreaming about your grandmother again, the one who taught you how to stir sauce without burning it. We eat from the same pot, knees touching under the table. The parmesan clumps, but we call it rustic.

Isn’t it strange how we take turns, pretending the world isn’t ending? Laughter unaccompanied by mobile phones, a half grin that takes the shape of a crescent. Somehow, it feels like we are still in the middle of our lives, even though it’s already tomorrow.

about the author // Nour Shtayyeh