There is a jar of purple powder that sits beside her bed. It begins to collect dust as days pass, never once being used.

Every night, she fluffs her pillow and pulls her sheets open. She gets settled beneath her comforter, and when she thinks she is ready to remove the lid from the jar, her heart begins to race. Her thumb and first finger shake, and so she decides against it. It is a repetitive thing.

The night Thea received the jar, the woman who held it smiled with mischief. “It will show you your last day,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“On Earth.”

Thea blinked. She muttered something beneath her breath and began to gather her things. The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder as Thea began to leave the room. She paused.

“Goodbye, darling.”

Thea did not need to think. She grabbed the strap of her bag, and through her arm, brought it to her shoulder. She passed through the curtain of beads, leaving the dark room behind her.

When Thea arrived home, she removed her bag from her shoulder and reached inside for her keys. As she searched, she felt a strangely cold object the size of a dollar coin and removed it from her bag.

She stilled. She dropped her arms, the bag hitting her legs, and then dropped her head back, making eye contact with the stars above.

And she laughed.

Tonight, she fluffs her pillows, pulls her sheets open, and settles beneath her comforter. She retrieves the jar from her nightstand, her hands shake, but she does not stop as she removes the lid from the jar. Thea dips a finger in the powder and brings it to her eye. With the hand that holds the jar, she sets it back onto the nightstand, then brings it to where the powdery finger waits.

She lifts her eyelid and places the purple powder on her pupil. She does the same with the other. They begin to dilate before she has even removed her hand.

Her eyelids flutter and when her breaths begin to slow and her body relaxes, she sees nothing. Black. A night sky devoid of stars and moons.

Her lips part; her chest stills.