A subtle difference exists between finding the end and the end finding you. One is a choice, a moment of control. The other is surrender, a quiet relinquishing of power. But what of the space between? The blurred lines where agency fades into inevitability, where we reach forward only to watch the world slip from our grasp?
I have walked that space. I have smelled the end before it arrived, watched it unfold in slow motion, craving its warmth even as shivers raked through my skin. I have seen it not as an abrupt conclusion but as something that creeps in gently, like dusk melting into night.
They say grief fades when you have already let go. If that is true, then tell me—was that why I felt nothing when I saw you leave? Not because I did not care, but because the loss had settled into my bones long before it happened. Maybe endings do not come with fanfare or final words. Maybe they arrive in the silences, in the way love cools into absence, in the way doors shut before you have time to reach them.
But what if, for once, you held them open?
Will you pull me back from the brink, hold me close before the gap widens too far? Will you stand by my side, steady, as I chase the last remnants of what could have been? There was a time I longed for better days, sent prayers into the void hoping for change. Now, I am too drained to write more letters, too tired to ask for answers. Hope was once a companion; now it lingers at the edges, just out of reach.
Yet, even as exhaustion settles in, the craving remains. A need for warmth, for light, for the steady presence of something—or someone—who will not waver when the walls close in. My heart is worn, tired from beating against the weight of unspoken thoughts, unanswered calls. But the longing does not leave.
Perhaps it is foolish to reach for something unknown, to yearn for someone I may not even know. But the heart does not listen to reason. It does not ask for permission before it aches. It simply does.
And so, I wait in the space between—between choosing the end and having it choose me. Between knowing you and not knowing you. Between letting go and hoping, just once more, that something will reach back.