Seven minutes left—
you feel it before you understand it.
Something in your chest goes wrong,
like a switch that won’t flip back.
Six minutes—
your breath turns thin and uneven.
Air comes in pieces.
You try to fix it. You can’t.
Five minutes—
panic sets in hard.
Your heart hammers like it’s trying to escape.
You think of calling someone,
but your hands won’t listen.
Four minutes—
your body is louder than your thoughts now.
Pain, pressure, heat—
all of it piling up at once.
You realize this is actually happening.
Three minutes—
you don’t think about your whole life.
Just flashes—
a face, a voice,
something you should’ve said.
Two minutes—
your strength leaves fast.
The room feels far away.
You’re still here,
but barely holding on.
One minute—
you stop fighting as hard.
Not by choice.
You just can’t keep it up.
Then—
nothing heroic, nothing poetic.
Just a final breath
that doesn’t come back.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 4:21 PM UTC
Seven minutes left—
you feel it before you understand it.
Something in your chest goes wrong,
like a switch that won’t flip back.
Six minutes—
your breath turns thin and uneven.
Air comes in pieces.
You try to fix it. You can’t.
Five minutes—
panic sets in hard.
Your heart hammers like it’s trying to escape.
You think of calling someone,
but your hands won’t listen.
Four minutes—
your body is louder than your thoughts now.
Pain, pressure, heat—
all of it piling up at once.
You realize this is actually happening.
Three minutes—
you don’t think about your whole life.
Just flashes—
a face, a voice,
something you should’ve said.
Two minutes—
your strength leaves fast.
The room feels far away.
You’re still here,
but barely holding on.
One minute—
you stop fighting as hard.
Not by choice.
You just can’t keep it up.
Then—
nothing heroic, nothing poetic.
Just a final breath
that doesn’t come back.
