Fin.

If I could rewrite our story, I'd barely change a thing. Maybe I'd throw in some extra surprises or fireworks, although I think it's mostly good as it is. However, I would add one final scene. We didn't have one of those, really. Just half of a thought trailing off with an ellipsis...

The end would be epic, we'd always joke, with fire, passion, and all the extravagant intensities that summed up everything we soaked in. Excess in everything; alcohol, food, sex, sleep, battles, mirth. We used to bring the stars out with our endless laughter and banter about how impossible it'd be for anyone else to take the place of the other due to our tortuous stalking and jealousy. Not that you were ever jealous. Nope. Never. Into a tangle of sheets you'd toss me after our inevitable dissension, and even though I wouldn't forget what you'd done to boil me, I'd always forgive. I promise. I did.

Alas, the finale wasn't quite what we had imagined it'd be. It didn't come close to the explosive closing chapter in a classic novela of vehemence, but rather resembled a hurried end for lack of imagination; the protagonist escapes by waking up from a dream, in a film where the budget fell short. Very unlike us. We'd pictured catastrophes and lightening, when in reality, we got an annoying drizzle on a Sunday morning.

It doesn't seem appropriate for things to end as they did. It was boring and not worth retelling, unlike the lives we wrapped ourselves up with. That ellipsis eventually condensed into a period, thoughtlessly closing that half-thought because no one was coming back with anything to say. There weren't any special effects, or twists; our story was over. But maybe you wouldn't even change a thing, since it's mostly good as it is.