There she is—
Staring at the same page of her favorite book,
Letting every word sink deeper than it ever should.
One last look before she dares to close it,
As if the story somehow mirrors the life she never chose.
Each sentence cuts clean through her soul,
Whispering questions she’s too tired to ask out loud:
Is this really the role I was meant to play?
The one where the protagonist walks away—
Alone, again—
After collecting every wound this world could throw.
Her tears, silent and scorching,
Trace familiar paths down cheeks no longer naive.
Her body, fragile with the weight of unspoken grief,
Feels the ache returning like a bitter old friend.
The cycle begins once more,
And she opens her arms—not in hope, but in surrender.
She’s learned now—
Not all stories end in happily ever after.
Some close in quiet heartbreak,
With whispered goodbyes and chapters left unfinished.
And for the nth time,
It’s the kind of ending written just for her.
