The Final Love Story

“Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice” (Robert Frost)

We were young, love, when the end of the world came. In a country of brown autumn leaves, we were the flowers of spring. The final notes of the last song were ending, but our song had only just begun. The air smelled of death and loss, but all we could feel was the life flowing in our veins, exploding towards a new beginning.

It was all crumbling around us – but we did not care. Like two strong trees we stood in the deserted field, confident we could withstand any storm. Everything faded around us, but we stood our ground, holding on to each other. We lost everything – except for ourselves. And that was enough for us.

We were the last born in the twilight of our time. There would be no more after us. It was natural, my love, that we should try to find each other, that we should be drawn to one another, binding our lives so tight, we would never be apart again. I remember a time before the fire and the ice, before the ground crumbled beneath our feet. I remember our last sunrise. How you said then we would not be the world’s end, but its new beginning – do you remember that?

Those days right before the end were the best of my life. You and I, my dearest, walking through the yellowing field, hand in hand, our hair mingling in the growing wind. No one said anything to us. No one tried to stop us. Their thoughts were on the inevitable end. Our thoughts were on our own beginning.

We were only children when we met, on the day when everyone else was weeping. They all knew then nothing could be done to stop the end. All attempts to save the world had failed. It was a black day of mourning. To me, it was a time of rejoicing. That is how I still choose to remember it.

I was fire, and you were ice. I came from that part of the world turned into a barren desert, and you lived in a land of eternal frost. You taught me about snow, and I told you about flames. You knew the words to freeze my veins, and I knew the language that would ignite your blood. And when we spoke together, we created a new language, fire and ice together, blended into a destructive force, eating away at everything in sight, while giving life to the two of us.

I was fire, and you were ice...

We were wary of each other at first. I still smile when I remember. I was afraid when I caught sight of you – lanky and clumsy, pale of face with sky-blue eyes. You looked like a ghost to me. What did I look like to you, with my bright red hair and skin like the bark of a burnt tree? Did you think I was a demon? Did you find me beautiful at all? Is that why you approached me, in the end?

For days we stood on opposite ends of a field that was not yet burnt or frozen. The earth held its breath, waiting for the final blow to fall: the last calamity, burning or freezing everything in its path.

We cared nothing about that. We were much more preoccupied with each other. We observed one another for a long time, fascinated yet frightened, attracted and repelled by this strange novelty. But, little by little, our feelings became more clearly defined. Admiration won over. Gradually, I realized you were not a monster. Your face was as beautiful as mountain snows. Your eyes hid mysteries of long winter nights. There was a silence about you – a sense of peace so welcoming, I wished it was given only to me.

I wanted to make myself just as appealing to you. I had sparks glitter in my hair. I made my skin shine in the all consuming sun. My movements turned deliberate and sinuous, like the dance of the newly-born flames. You weren’t unmoved – I felt the beating of your heart, and mine throbbed faster too, in answer. I took a step towards you. You hesitated, then in turn took a step towards me.

What happened next was gradual – over months, maybe even years. Every day, we would take one more step. Then we would stop and begin again the next day. We forgot our initial wariness. What we could feel now was an all-consuming desire, as we got closer, our hands outstretched. During that time, my fear vanished. During that time your caution was erased. All that was left within us was love – a love that burnt, an affection as silent and complete as a snowy grave.

When we finally stood face to face, we were no longer children. We had grown, and the need to be closer to each other had shaped us. We were young, our lives just beginning, and we did not care how close the rest of the world was to its end.

I reached out, and so did you. The tips of our fingers touched. You froze me, and I burned you, but beyond all that there was only overwhelming, unspeakable joy. We were finally together. I could finally hold you in my arms. You could finally look into my eyes.

The wind picked up speed around us. Snow and ash danced in the skies. Lightning seared the sky, and hail fell on the fields. We did not care. We only had eyes for each other. We walked hand in hand in a field that was half-brown, half-white. You sang to me the songs of winter winds. I danced for you the dances of midsummer fires. All around us, there were other songs – a funeral dirge for the fading world, the lamenting voices of the dying, the mourning cries of thousands of frightened birds. We did not hear them. They could never be stronger than the melody we created together.

You sang to me the song of winter winds.

How long did our feverish oblivion last? It could have been hundreds of years. It could have been only seconds. Love doesn’t measure time the normal way. Youth does not care about the passing of days. But eventually, we woke up. Passion faded into familiarity. The tune became repetitive. We still loved each other – but we had eyes for the world around us once more.

We saw it then: the ashen fields, the frozen trees, the birds all silent, the earth all still. We had lived through the end of the world, you and I, and we did not even notice. We did not care. And now, it was too late to be afraid. It was too late to mourn.

Do you remember your people, love? I remember mine and how they wept on the day I was born, tearing their hair and cursing my name. Your people must have done the same when they found out about you. The signs were written in our eyes – we were to be the last, the ones who would live through the end, the ones who would consume the world.

“They must never meet,” I heard my family say. “She is the spirit of fire. He is the lord of ice. They cannot stand too close together, or we are all doomed.”

We were born in the last days of the world, my dear. We were the instrument through which fire and ice overwhelmed everything. We were not supposed to meet – but we did. And that brief liaison left our earth a wasteland.

And now – now we are old. We still walk side by side, because there is no one else to walk with us. We still gaze deep into each other’s eyes – because ours are the only eyes that see. And beyond the love that brought this world to the end of times, there is a growing cold indifference, a smoldering hatred. We are tied to each other – but we’ve robbed each other of the choice to bind ourselves to someone else.

Tonight I walk through the fields where we met. I look at the burnt trees and the frozen ground. I recall the songs you taught me and the dances I showed you. It was a beautiful sight. We made the world lovely in its death throes. In those days, we thought we would rule over all. And it is true. This wasteland is our domain – even though we are the only ones alive in it.

The end of the world was many years ago. My fires are nearly quenched, your ice is almost melted. And I wonder which of us will go first, or if we will die together and the world will wake up one day to find itself utterly empty.

Will there be life again at one point, once we are gone? Will there be bird-songs again, in a million years? Will there be people once more, building cities and singing songs? Will they find these pages buried deep in the ground, and will they give them a thought, as a cautionary tale, or simply as a story to entertain them on long nights?

Last night I saw a small flower rising from the ashes…

When our hands met and clasped all those years ago, the world exploded around us, a whirlwind of fire and ice. Now, on the eve of our own end, maybe the world is close to a new beginning. We were the youngest, you and I, when all things came to an end. We will be the oldest, when it all starts anew.

First published in Night Picnic Journal, Volume 2, Issue 1, 2019

Copyright Simina Lungu 2025