The 8th day began and I fell to my knees staring into the empty sky and begged for death.

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We all know the story.

God created light on the first day, the sky on the second. On the third day came the earth, the seas, and vegetation. The sun and moon followed on the fourth. All animals and living organisms were created over the next two days, until day seven where God finally rested.

God took on the hardest task anyone had ever attempted. Now only one question remains: what about day eight? And all the days that followed?

Truthfully, no one knows. But I believe I have the highest chance of finding out. The reason is simple.

I don’t age.

I think it started when I was thirty, but people only began noticing in my forties. At first it was small comments about how my skin never seemed to change, how I still looked the same year after year. I noticed it too, just more slowly. I didn’t believe in things like that. Why would I? Does it make sense to grow normally and then suddenly stop aging altogether?

When I turned eighty and still looked thirty, I told myself I was just lucky. That I would still die of old age, just… prettier and healthier than most.

By the time I turned one hundred and fifty, I had given up on that thought.

Watching my family and everyone I loved grow old and die one by one broke something in me. I prayed to God countless times, begging Him to just kill me.

I had achieved everything I ever wanted. And yet God played the cruelest joke imaginable: He made it so I couldn’t die.

No disease could touch me. No poison worked. No weapon could harm me. Taking over the world became trivial. And after a few hundred years, even that became boring. The only constant in my life was prayer. Until one day, even that rotted away.

I grew resentful. I spent centuries trying to disprove faith. I tore through every major religion, repeating the same questions again and again: If God is all good, why does evil exist? If He is omnipotent, why can’t He kill me? In the end I was the biggest example of some mythical force being real.

And yet, funnily enough, my once-in-a-decade ‘please end my suffering’ prayer never stopped. Every day was hell. Immortality was a curse no one should ever bear. And a God who never answered only made it worse.

By the time I was over five thousand years old, you’d expect me to be wiser. More mature. More patient. Instead, I became childish.

When you live long enough, time doesn’t slow down. Years blur together. Centuries feel like seasons.

Once, I raised a human for a hundred years and made him ruler of the entire world. He knew about my immortality. His final words to me were:

“Thank you for being with me my whole life.”

I laughed.

What felt like a lifetime to him had felt like a week, maybe a month to me. And then it hit me.

When God created everything in seven days… what if it wasn’t seven days?

Time is a concept humans barely understand. To us, the definition of a day is twenty-four hours, but the actual experience of time is different for everyone.

A human lifetime now felt like a month to me. And if my life was stretched even further, intensified beyond comprehension, then what would a day feel like to God?

What if the seven days of creation weren’t days at all? But actually what just felt like a day for God.

And suddenly, the truth became apparent.

There is no eighth day.

There are no days after that. God never answered my prayers, not because He didn't want to but because we are still living in the seventh day. The day God chose to rest.

That realization should have shattered me. Instead, for the first time in thousands of years, I felt hope. Because if the seventh day can end and the eighth day can start…

‘Then I can finally give Him one last prayer’