You don’t look surprised, just confused. Your hair is a mess, and you’re still wrapped in your bathrobe. Probably you were a little scared, you don’t like answering the door if you don’t know who’s there, but I kept ringing the bell until you couldn’t ignore me. I try to smile but nothing happens, I’m terrified. I have been since last night. You probably haven’t seen it, you’d have said something, or done something. Hell everyone should have done something, screamed, panicked, repented or whatever, just something. But all the way here people seem to be carrying on with their lives, business as usual. But I couldn’t. I got on the first plane and I went to you. I’m nervous, too. I have to make you understand this isn’t a romantic gesture, this isn’t some pre-pubescent show-off move, I’m not trying to woo you. I am scared, and now time is running out, for all of us. I look into your eyes, and I tell you that I cannot go to death with this regret in my heart. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t ask you to take me back here and now, instead I only ask if I can come inside and explain. You mumble and nod, and I walk inside and close the door behind us. Far above, very very far above, millions of miles away, a piece of rock the size of Manhattan tumbles slowly end-over-end, six years out. Six years and then nothing else. Six years that I absolutely have to spend with you.