Heaven, hell, and everything in between.

The end of an era begins with one.

It lasts through the highest times and can end on a crescendo or a long, drawn-out sad note. One where the musician doesn’t dare stop singing, playing, or holding on to that fleeting key at the end of a song, for fear that the warmth accompanying it would flutter away, too. I dare wish we ended like that — a bludgeoned and bloody love story, where our love was taboo — like Juliet and Romeo.

Or where we tip-toed the love-hate line like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Unforgettable drama, complete with twists, turns, 19mm bullets, and hand-hurled wine glasses.

But we ended like neither. Not an era, nothing of specific significance, just something that happened in passing. No exclusively high moments, no cold or hot emotions. Just a lukewarm lake that was filled with things we wished we were, things we could never be. We didn’t have the range.

We saw ourselves too late — even if we’d been seeing ourselves every week before that week. Yes, that week when you giggled and suddenly found my jokes hilarious, and we no longer stood at arm's length from each other when we spoke. That week, where you became curious about the texture of my palms and asked if I ever really did any work at home.

It was that week you wanted to know what I did, and how I did it, even though I never wanted to speak about it to you, to anyone. It was the week I put my arm around you for the first time. And it felt so natural, so good, I wondered why I never did before.

And many nights after that I lay on my bed twisting and turning, asking myself if I deserved to feel that way. If I deserved to feel like there was someone I wanted to put on clothes for in the evening, someone I wanted to talk to that wasn’t just a friend. Someone I might actually genuinely have feelings for. The feeling was alien, I hadn’t felt it in over 2 years.

But by the time we realized it, it was too late. It was too late to confess feelings of love after walking around each other awkwardly for so long. It was too late to hold your hands and profess my undying love to you. It was too late to commit, too late to disengage.

See, there’s heaven above and hell below, the happily ever after and the fight to the death, the stories of raging romance and the toxic fools. And then there was us, in between, with wishes as horses and us riding them. We held on to a non-existent idea, not because it made sense to, but because you hold on to what you wished for that never came true. You hold on to the idea of what you could have been.

Until someone says you shouldn’t anymore. That it’s time to let go of something that was never really there.

It wasn’t a broken relationship that we fought to fix. It wasn’t a love story filled with the throes of passion, anger, and the seven sins. It didn’t inspire, didn’t motivate. There were no fights, no incessant complaining to friends about ourselves and pointing fingers. There was just it — nothing.

Nothing.

And that’s why this story is as short as it is. There was never really anything to write about.