Dark Matter

by Blake Crouch

Until everything topples, we have no idea what we actually have, how precariously and perfectly it all hangs together.

I’ve always known, on a purely intellectual level, that our separateness and isolation are an illusion. We’re all made of the same thing—the blown-out pieces of matter formed in the fires of dead stars. I’ve just never felt that knowledge in my bones until that moment, there, with you. And it’s because of you.