This is not a love story.
This is not a fairy tale.
If it were, there would be wine and flowers and lights, all placed in perfect harmony against a white silk backdrop. There would be dazzling men in tuxedos and women to steal their breath away, vanishing amidst a crowd of waltzing dancers. There would be towers and princesses in distress with a knight on his way to save them—a little girl's dream to become the object of abject affection.
But this is not about a little girl who still desperately believes in stars, waiting on a madman to come and save her from herself. It is not a marathon of soap operas, and it is not a drama. It is not a typical, badly written, cliché romance novel where the boy gets the girl in the end and reality ceases to exist as a reader closes the last vestiges of a perfect world.
If it were, there would be a happy ending. There would be a wedding. There would be a enduring, heart-wrenching kiss at the end of the suspenseful climax.
But this is simply a story about a girl.
It is a story of how she rips herself apart, how she manages to pick up the puzzle pieces, and how she glues them back together with hollow eyes and the solemnity of a bird with broken wings.
Her story, it turns out, starts long before the dreaded hospital nights and cold cups of tea saturated with sugar, lying by a bedside table which has no personality. Before the hollow laughs ringing through empty hallways. Before the monotonous beep of the heart monitor. Before the tearstains. Before the fall.
Before him.
His name was Allan.
And this is the story of how he died.
YOU ARE READING
Sometimes It Ends
General Fiction"But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we-- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful An...
