The bride wanted doves.
"I understand your concern about timing," said Jennifer Park, adjusting her veil in my office mirror, "but I really think white doves would add that touch of elegance."
"Ms. Park," I said as gently as possible, "the asteroid hits Earth in four months. The doves will be extinct. You'll be extinct. Everyone will be extinct. Maybe we should focus on centerpieces instead?"
"But it's my wedding day."
"It's also the apocalypse."
"Can't it be both?"
I looked at my assistant, Marcus, who was trying very hard not to laugh. This was my life now. Event planning at the end of the world.
My name is Sophie Chen. I'm a wedding planner in Seattle, and business has never been better. You'd think an extinction-level asteroid would put a damper on the wedding industry, but apparently, when humanity has six months left, everyone wants to get married. Tax benefits become irrelevant. Long-term compatibility stops mattering. The question becomes: do you want to die alone or die married?
Most people choose married.
"Here's what I can do," I told Jennifer. "I can get you artificial doves. LED lights inside. They'll be very pretty as they're vaporized by the impending cosmic collision."
"That's so romantic."
"That's one word for it."
She left happy, LED dove order confirmed, blissfully planning her wedding like the world wasn't ending. Which it was. NASA had confirmed it. Asteroid 2025-XL9, affectionately nicknamed "Rockpocalypse" by the internet, would impact Earth on October 15th at 3:47 PM Eastern Time.
We had four months, twelve days, and approximately six hours left.
And I had forty-three weddings to plan.
"You're getting cynical again," Marcus said, once Jennifer left.
"I'm being realistic. Everyone's getting married because they're terrified of dying alone, not because they're in love."
"And you know this how?"
"Because I've planned eight hundred weddings. I know what real love looks like. This?" I gestured at my overflowing calendar. "This is collective panic with catering."
"Maybe people just want to feel something meaningful before the end."
"They want to feel married. That's not the same thing."
Marcus gave me his patented "you're damaged and I'm concerned" look. "When did you become so cynical about love?"
"When my fiancé left me three years ago because he 'needed to find himself.' Then the world started ending and suddenly everyone's in love. Funny how that works."
"Sophie—"
"Next appointment?"
He sighed and checked the schedule. "Timothy Webb. Wants to book a wedding for October 14th."
"The day before the asteroid?"
"He's very romantic. Or very morbid. Possibly both."
"Send him in."
--------------------------------------------------
Timothy Webb was not what I expected.
Most of my end-of-world clients were young couples rushing to marry before extinction. Timothy was probably forty, wearing a slightly rumpled suit, and had the look of someone who'd thought too hard about things.
"Mr. Webb," I said, shaking his hand. "I understand you want to get married the day before the asteroid impact?"
"Is that weird?"
"In a six-month span where I've planned marriages between people who met last week, nothing is weird anymore."
He smiled. It was a good smile. Tired but genuine. "Fair point. Yes, I want to get married on October 14th. Small ceremony. Maybe fifty people. Nothing too elaborate."
"And the bride?"
"That's the complicated part." He shifted in his seat. "I don't have one yet."
I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I'm not currently in a relationship. But I want to get married before the world ends. So I need your help finding someone."
"Mr. Webb, I'm a wedding planner, not a matchmaker."
"I know. But hear me out." He pulled out a folder. An actual physical folder with papers inside like some kind of analog person. "I've made a list of criteria. Compatibility factors. Shared interests. Reasonable expectations for an end-of-world marriage."
"This is a spreadsheet."
"I'm an accountant. We use spreadsheets for everything." He pointed at various columns. "See? I've ranked potential compatibility factors by importance. Sense of humor is weighted heavily. Physical attraction is moderate. Long-term financial planning is obviously irrelevant."
"This is the most depressing and weirdly practical thing I've ever seen."
"Thank you?"
I studied the spreadsheet. It was actually quite thorough. Too thorough for someone just panicking about dying alone.
"Why do you really want to get married?" I asked. "And don't say because everyone else is doing it."
He was quiet for a moment. "My wife died six years ago. Cancer. We'd been married for twelve years. Best twelve years of my life." He looked at his hands. "When the asteroid was announced, my first thought was relief. That she wouldn't have to see the world end. My second thought was that I missed her. My third thought was that maybe, before this is all over, I could feel that again. Even if it's just for a day."
Oh no.
I was feeling things. Emotions. Empathy for a client. This was against my entire professional philosophy.
"Mr. Webb—"
"Timothy."
"Timothy. I can plan your wedding. But I can't promise you'll find love in four months."
"I'm not looking for love. I'm looking for connection. Someone to sit with while the world ends. Someone who also thinks this is all absurd and beautiful and terrifying." He smiled again. "Someone who might appreciate a well-organized spreadsheet about end-of-world compatibility."
"You're a strange man, Timothy Webb."
"I'm aware. Will you help me?"
I looked at his spreadsheet. At his hopeful, sad, tired face. At Marcus, who was making encouraging gestures from across the room.
"Fine," I said. "But I'm doing this as a personal favor, not a service. And if this goes badly, you can't leave me a bad review."
"Deal."
--------------------------------------------------
Matching Timothy Webb with a compatible end-of-world bride turned out to be more complicated than planning forty-three weddings simultaneously.
"What about Sarah?" Marcus suggested, pulling up her file. "Librarian. Likes spreadsheets. Recently divorced."
"She's marrying her ex-husband next month. They reconciled when the asteroid was announced."
"Jennifer from the dove wedding?"
"Already married. That's her third wedding this year."
"How is that possible?"
"Two divorces. When you only have six months left, people move fast."
We'd been at this for a week. Timothy came to the office daily, updating his spreadsheet with new criteria, making his compatibility algorithm more sophisticated. It was simultaneously endearing and depressing.
"Maybe I'm being too analytical about this," he said on day eight, staring at his laptop. "Maybe I should just go to a bar and meet someone."
"Have you been to a bar recently?" I asked. "They're either full of people getting engaged to strangers or people having philosophical meltdowns about mortality. Sometimes both simultaneously."
"That actually sounds interesting."
"You're strange."
"You've mentioned that."
I looked at my schedule. Three consults back to back. Two venue crises. One cake baker having an existential breakdown because what's the point of perfecting buttercream if we're all going to die?
"Come with me," I said impulsively.
"Where?"
"To a wedding. I'm doing final walkthrough at Green Lake Park. You can see what end-of-world romance actually looks like. Maybe it'll help calibrate your expectations."
"Is this professional?"
"Nothing about this situation is professional."
--------------------------------------------------
The wedding at Green Lake was beautiful and heartbreaking.
The groom was ninety-three. The bride was ninety. They'd been neighbors for forty years, never married, always "just friends." When the asteroid was announced, they'd decided they'd wasted enough time.
"We figured," said the groom, adjusting his boutonniere, "if the world's ending anyway, might as well admit we love each other."
"Took you long enough," the bride said, but she was smiling.
They got married at sunset. Their families surrounded them. Everyone cried. It was perfect.
Timothy watched the whole thing with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"That was beautiful," he said afterward.
"They waited forty years to admit their feelings. That's not beautiful. That's tragic."
"It's both. Can't it be both?"
I thought about that. About Jennifer Park and her LED doves. About couples getting married after knowing each other for three days. About two ninety-year-olds finally admitting what everyone else already knew.
"Maybe," I admitted. "Maybe it can be both."
"Sophie, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why are you so cynical about all this? You plan weddings for a living. You must have believed in love once."
I watched the sunset over the lake. The happy couple. Their families. All of it temporary. All of it doomed.
"I believed in forever," I said. "Then my fiancé left. Then the world started ending. Turns out forever is a lie. We get maybe four months if we're lucky. Less if the asteroid calculation is off. Why pretend otherwise?"
"Because four months of real connection is better than a lifetime of being alone."
"Is it though?"
"Yes." He said it with such certainty. "My wife and I had twelve years. If I'd known they'd end the way they did, I'd still choose them. Every single day. The loss doesn't erase the love."
"That's very philosophical for someone with a compatibility spreadsheet."
"I contain multitudes." He smiled. "Including both romantic idealism and analytical pragmatism. According to my spreadsheet, that makes me approximately seventy-three percent tolerable as a person."
I laughed. Actually laughed. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm self-aware. There's a difference."
We stood by the lake, watching the wedding party celebrate. The world was ending. Everything was temporary. And somehow, standing next to this strange accountant with his spreadsheets and his honest grief, I felt less cynical about it all.
"Timothy?"
"Yeah?"
"I might know someone who'd be compatible with you."
"Really? Who?"
"She's about your age. Professionally successful. Extremely cynical about romance but secretly still believes in it. Excellent at event planning. Terrible at emotional vulnerability."
He looked at me. "Are you describing yourself?"
"Maybe. Is that weird?"
"In a world where people marry strangers before extinction? Not even a little bit."
"I'm supposed to plan your wedding, not be in it. That's a conflict of interest."
"You're a wedding planner at the end of the world. Everything's a conflict of interest."
"Fair point." I looked at him properly. At his tired, kind face. His spreadsheet. His honest desire for connection in the face of cosmic annihilation. "You should know, I'm damaged goods. My ex really messed me up. I don't know if I can do the whole love thing properly anymore."
"My wife died and I'm trying to date using spreadsheets. We're both damaged." He held out his hand. "Want to be damaged together for four months?"
"That's the least romantic proposal I've ever heard."
"I'm an accountant. Romance isn't really my strong suit."
"And yet you want to get married the day before the world ends."
"I'm complicated."
I took his hand. It felt right. Strange, but right. "Okay. Let's try this. But I'm still planning the wedding. You clearly can't be trusted with dove decisions."
"I never mentioned doves."
"Everyone mentions doves. It's a thing."
--------------------------------------------------
Dating at the end of the world was surprisingly normal.
We went to restaurants that were either completely empty or packed with people living like there was no tomorrow. Because there wasn't. We walked through the city, watching people quit jobs, confess feelings, do all the things they'd been too afraid to do when consequences mattered.
"Everyone's so honest now," Timothy observed one evening. "No one's hiding anymore."
"Because there's no point. Can't worry about embarrassment when you'll be extinct in three months."
"Is that why you're dating me? Because consequences don't matter?"
I thought about it. "No. I'm dating you because you made a spreadsheet about compatibility and somehow that was endearing instead of creepy. Also, you're kind. And funny. And you understand that grief and love aren't opposites."
"That's very sweet. Should I add it to the spreadsheet?"
"Don't you dare."
He kissed me. Right there on the street, with the city continuing its march toward oblivion around us. It was good. Better than good.
"So," he said when we broke apart. "October 14th. You, me, fifty guests. LED doves?"
"Absolutely not."
"Real doves?"
"They'll be extinct."
"Then what?"
"I'm thinking... nothing. Just us. The people we love. Honesty. No doves. No elaborate centerpieces. Just the truth of what this is."
"Which is?"
"Two broken people choosing each other for whatever time we have left. That's enough."
"That's more than enough." He pulled me close. "You know what the best part about end-of-world romance is?"
"What?"
"We don't have to worry about the marriage getting boring. We're pretty much guaranteed to stay interested for our entire marriage."
"That's dark."
"That's realistic."
"Same thing lately."
We walked home through a city that was simultaneously celebrating and mourning. Humanity in its final months. Messy and beautiful and absurd.
Marcus had been right. People weren't getting married because they were panicking. They were getting married because they wanted to feel something real before the end. They wanted connection. Meaning. Love, even if it was temporary.
Especially because it was temporary.
--------------------------------------------------
October 14th arrived with unseasonably nice weather.
We got married at Green Lake Park, same spot where the ninety-year-olds had finally admitted their feelings. Fifty guests showed up. My parents cried. Marcus officiated, somehow managing to make it both hilarious and moving.
"Do you, Sophie Chen, take this spreadsheet-making accountant to be your end-of-world husband?"
"I do."
"And do you, Timothy Webb, take this cynical wedding planner to be your apocalypse wife?"
"I do."
"Then by the power vested in me by the State of Washington and the impending cosmic annihilation, I pronounce you married until death or asteroid, whichever comes first. You may kiss while you still have time."
We kissed. Everyone cheered. The world didn't end. Not yet.
That was tomorrow.
The reception was perfect. No LED doves. No elaborate centerpieces. Just people we loved, sharing a meal, dancing badly, making jokes about the asteroid.
"Best wedding I've ever planned," I told Marcus.
"You always say that."
"This time I mean it." I watched Timothy talking to my parents, making them laugh despite everything. "Thank you. For pushing me to help him."
"I didn't push. I encouraged. There's a difference."
"Same thing."
"Completely different."
We danced as the sun set. One last night before the asteroid. One last evening of being alive.
"Any regrets?" Timothy asked, holding me close.
"That we didn't meet sooner. That we only get four months. That the world is ending just when I remember how to be happy."
"Same. All of that." He spun me gently. "But also, I'm glad we get this. Even if it's brief."
"Me too."
"You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"When the asteroid was announced, everyone said love was pointless. Why connect when it's all ending? But I think that's exactly why we should. Because connection is the only thing that makes any of this bearable."
"You're very wise for someone who uses spreadsheets to date."
"I'm multifaceted."
"You're ridiculous."
"Same thing."
We danced until late. Until the stars came out. Until tomorrow became today.
--------------------------------------------------
October 15th, 3:47 PM Eastern Time.
We gathered at Green Lake. All of us. The wedding guests. The couples I'd helped marry. Strangers. Everyone who wanted to face the end together rather than alone.
Timothy held my hand. "Scared?"
"Terrified. You?"
"Same. But less scared than I would be alone."
I looked around at everyone gathered. Jennifer Park with her husband, probably arguing about LED doves in the afterlife. The ninety-year-olds, holding hands, having finally gotten their time together. Marcus, trying to organize an end-of-world picnic because he couldn't help himself.
All these people who'd chosen connection over isolation. Love over fear. Even knowing it was temporary.
"Timothy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For making a spreadsheet. For being honest. For teaching me that cynicism is just disappointed hope."
"You taught me something too."
"What?"
"That wedding planners can be romantic if you're patient enough."
"I'm not romantic. I'm practical."
"Same thing, lately."
The sky began to brighten. The asteroid visible now, growing larger. Minutes left. Maybe seconds.
I kissed my husband. My strange, wonderful, spreadsheet-making husband. Married for less than a day. Together for four months. In love for exactly the right amount of time.
"Worth it?" he asked.
"Every second."
The light grew brighter.
And I wasn't scared anymore.
Because I wasn't alone.
None of us were.
That's what the end-of-world weddings had taught me. Not that love conquers death. But that connection makes it bearable. That choosing someone, even temporarily, even desperately, is still choosing something real.
The light became everything.
And my last thought was gratitude.
For LED doves and compatibility spreadsheets and four months of unexpected love.
For all the couples who'd refused to die alone.
For Marcus and his terrible jokes and his good heart.
For Timothy, who saw my cynicism and loved me anyway.
For everyone who'd chosen connection when isolation would have been easier.
The world ended.
But we ended it together.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
--------------------------------------------------
END
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