Between Two Points

Epilogue: Between Two Points

"Then at least we love each other in this one," I whispered to myself.

There are stories we write to remember.

And then there are stories we write to make sense of the things we could never have.

I stared at the last sentence on my screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, the weight of everything I had written pressing against my chest.

This was it.

The story I had poured my heart into. The love I had created, shaped, and given a different ending. The moments I had stolen from reality and rewrote into something that felt almost real.

But that’s all it was.

A story.

A fiction spun from my longing, stitched together by all the what-ifs I was too afraid to say out loud.

I was never that girl in the villa, watching the boy I loved capture moments through his lens. I was never the girl who walked away from him under city lights, heartbroken but whole. I was never the girl who stood in an art gallery, staring at a photograph that meant more than words ever could.

I was just me.

A college girl sitting in the corner of a university library, watching him from a distance.

A boy with a camera. A boy who didn’t know how much space he had taken up in my words, my thoughts, my story.

He was laughing with his friends now, his voice blending with the low murmur of the library, unaware that somewhere in this room, someone had spent the past few months turning him into a love story.

I swallowed hard and looked back at my laptop.

This novel, Between Two Points, wasn’t just fiction.

It was mine.

It was every stolen glance, every quiet admiration, every unspoken word I never had the courage to say.

It was love, written in a way I wished I had lived it.

With a deep breath, I typed the final words.

And this time, I knew, this love was never meant to be anything more than a story.

A story only I would remember.

A story only I would keep.

I hit save.

Then, with one last glance at the boy with the camera.

I closed my laptop.

And just like that—

The story ended.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the soft tapping of keys. I leaned back in my seat, staring at the closed laptop in front of me, the weight of my own words still lingering in my chest.

It’s over.

The story I had spent months writing, the love I had imagined, the heartbreak I had crafted, the memories I had woven into something almost tangible, was nothing more than lines on a screen.

And yet, it felt real.

I glanced to my right, to the boy with the camera, the boy who never knew.

Leo James.

Or at least, the version of him that existed outside my pages.

He wasn’t looking at me. He never did.

He was focused on something else, on people that weren’t me, on a life that would never intertwine with mine the way my story had pretended it did.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked away.