When the Gods came and asked us to leave, almost everyone complied.
There were only a few who didn't follow along with the rest. Let's call them 'runaways', shall we?
This diaspora is not organized. It doesn't exist for a "purpose". Some runaways couldn't respond to the Gods; some actively disobeyed or ignored them; but most? They just didn't care. And that apathy got received as rejection. There was just one way to agree with the Gods, but a thousand ways to disagree.
Thankfully, it wasn't a decision in vein. The runaways got their wish for a change of nothing. But those who agreed numbered so many more that it changed reality regardless. Isn't that funny?
The earth stood silent. A quiet apocalypse began to consume every apparition that the runaways knew. Cities, previously bustling, became more silent than wilderness. Businesses were left with the echoing hums of electronic installations. The sky yielded stars once more. And wildlife flourished with its oppressor now marginalized.
The runaways weren't threatened by extinction. There was enough preserved food, medication, housing and knowledge to let all of them survive. What was lost was a distinct sense of purpose. The machination of society had simply stopped; its gear now too rigid to ever re-enter motion. What kept everyone busy had vanished with no fanfare. The only thing left was just them.
Some runaways became far-away recluses, living a life to their own choosing and only their knowledge. Some runaways, especially those in denser cities, re-built community and fractions of what once was society. But the vast majority involuntarily became 'vagabonds', roaming the remains of a world that had left them behind.
These vagabonds drifted alone. They passed through the countless pristine ruins, took and learnt what they wanted, and moved on to some indeterminate elsewhere. A good amount built motivation and purpose in what they were doing. A reason for this aimlessness that would culminate with some end-state of their dreams. Another good amount never particularly thought much about what they were doing. While the remainder thought debatably too much about what they were doing, without finding answers.
What drove them forwards? What kept them going after their social reality had imploded? After the life they were promised revealed itself facetious? It's hard to tell, and practically none of them fully understood why. They knew that they wanted to keep going for some reason. Maybe to re-claim what they had lost, or had been promised. Who knows. The only thing that mattered was that it was a good enough reason to keep them going.
Occasionally, the vagabonds met another. Entirely by serendipity, mind you, as organization was outside their aims. And those interactions were... fleeting of complex emotions, to try and pin some detail down. They were never hostile. There was no reason to be hostile when there's so few of you. But they reminded the vagabonds of what once was, and that was often a truth that they weren't ready for. Let me explain.
Regardless of how you motivated yourself, you had at least accepted your fate. To meet others was to uncover another fate which you had denied. A fate which entailed a fraction of what was once promised. Maybe even something new in its place; something better; something different yet still familiar. It was difficult to wrap your head around, and often times too complex to understand before the encounter was over. A door opened and closed before you understood it as one.
There were a few cases where the door remained open, and in almost every case, it was entered. But even these fortunate cases can't escape a feeling of dissonance. Perhaps a survivor's guilt from how you're the exception rather than the standard. A feeling that this fate isn't "earned" or "justified" of you. A fear that it isn't even real.
At the end of the day, being a runaway doesnt't change your ability to connect. It doesnt't change who you want to know. It debatably doesnt't even make you different. It just enters you into a category. So, just like before the quiet apocalypse, most encounters don't end in a relationship. The only difference now is that this hurts. It hurts a lot. It hurts in a bitter, deeper way because it can't be resolved in a direct way. It hurts in a way that won't even be noticed eventually. It hurts in a way that can't be described; only reciprocated by experience. Which makes the encounters even more confusing in the moment.
But during those brief moments whenever vagabonds meet, that pain subsides. It undeniably returns once the rush of an interaction leaves the vagabond. The pain is debatably even worse then. But those brief moments overwhelm that pain. It's enough to keep the vagabonds going, and that is ultimately the only thing that matters.
Keep wandering, vagabond.
Hi. Welcome to my home. I hope you can comfort amongst these stars.