I remember being 9 and I had to write a short fairytale story for homework. I wrote a beautiful story, about a girl who grew up and fell in love with a boy (or girl, although I was 9 at the time and didn’t know anything other than heterosexual relationships). But I could never think of an ending. I handed it in, and my English teacher asked me why it wasn’t finished.

I was 16 when I fell in love with a boy who was an amazing person, but the universe decided it wasn’t meant to be. But I think, out of all the heartbreak and tragedy, I finally found an ending to my story:

Our stories are not destinations, they do not need to end in happy endings. Maybe the endings are who we become because of our experiences. Endings don’t have to be “and they lived happily ever after”, maybe they just have to be “and she tried, it didn’t work, but she’s happy within herself”.

Long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.