Light at the End of the Tunnel

You say, “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” but what if there is no end? We’ve been in it for days, weeks, months. Perhaps even a year has passed since we entered. “There was a light that led us into the tunnel,” I answer. “How do you know that the light at the end of the tunnel won’t lead us someplace worse?” We’re on foot, having run out of gas a long time ago—our car abandoned like so many others. We still walk at a brisk pace, but we both have begun to tire. “Shh,” you say. “Listen.” I listen for footsteps and the sound of breath. There are others in the tunnel, but we avoid each other as much as we can in the dark, though occasionally we bump into someone or someone bumps into us. No one stops to talk. We all just keep going. When you lead, I put my hand on your shoulder, and when I lead, you do the same. This way, we’ve stayed together. I imagine the sun on our faces, and birds flying into the trees. I imagine lying in the soft grass and sleeping with you next to me. “If we keep walking, we’ll come to the end of the tunnel,” you say, but now I can’t even remember entering a tunnel. For all I know, we’re walking under collapsed stars and the darkest moon in the universe.