You’re so worried about imploding like a black hole that a gravastar gets you instead. Not the collapsing, all-consuming kind, mind you, but the particularly smug sort of gravastar. The one that sits there, perfectly balanced between collapse and explosion, radiating just enough existential snark to remind you it knows something you don’t.

“What are you staring at?” it might say, if gravastars could talk (and who’s to say they can’t?). “I’m the universe’s ultimate ‘maybe.’ A Schrödinger’s star, if you will.”

And then it happens: you’re sucked into an argument with the gravastar. Not a physical collapse, no, just a debate about the fundamental meaninglessness of everything, delivered with the confidence of a cosmic object that exists purely to confuse astrophysicists and annoy poets.

By the time it’s done with you, you’ve forgotten what you were even worried about in the first place. Imploding? Exploding? Nah, you’ll just hang in limbo, caught between cosmic potential and an eye-roll so dense it bends light.

The problem with imploding like a black hole isn’t just the whole all-consuming singularity of doom thing. It’s the anticipation. Imploding is a bit like waiting for a bad review to hit the galactic press: you know it’s going to happen, you know it’s going to be catastrophic, but you don’t know when.

And so, you prepare. You spend eons practicing your gravitational pull. You become the most attractive object in the universe—literally. You practice saying things like, “Oh, no, I insist, you go first,” as you absorb unwitting planets, and maybe you even try on a bit of existential nihilism to really commit to the vibe.

But here’s the thing: nobody ever tells you about the gravastar.

The gravastar is the cosmic equivalent of that one smug friend who casually mentions they’ve been meditating for three years and have “transcended stress.” It’s not a black hole. It’s not even trying to be one. It’s an infuriatingly balanced entity, teetering on the edge of gravitational collapse without ever committing. A gravastar doesn’t implode—it almost implodes. It’s the galactic embodiment of a raised eyebrow and a cryptic “we’ll see.”

And then, without warning, the gravastar gets you. Not physically, of course. That would require some sort of definitive action, and gravastars are far too refined for such vulgar displays. Instead, it out-exists you.

While you were busy agonizing over your inevitable descent into singularity status, the gravastar was casually proving the universe isn’t about implosion or explosion—it’s about balance. You’re consumed, not by gravity, but by the horrifying realization that all your preparation was for a cosmic drama the gravastar had already transcended.

In the end, it’s not the collapsing, consuming death that gets you. It’s the smugness.