They write themselves
The endings to my stories write themselves. No need to figure out next steps. No need to learn how to just feel good about things feeling good. Because it’s over. Over-ish? Over enough to get on with getting over it. And the hurtful things he said were not meant to be hurtful. And the hurtful things I wanted to say back went unsaid because… hurting isn’t in me.
At least solitude feels familiar. I’m back to being myself again.