Just as all stories need a beginning, so they all need an end.
There is nothing left to write, now, and there is nothing left to say. The emotions I have lived with and through for nearly two years have gone: for him, although not for me. We spoke for the first time since we broke up in March, and he is happy, he is dating again, he does not love me anymore, and he does not miss me. He told me this as I sat and cried; watched me without a flicker of emotion. And, because this is the first end he has ever really given me - the first end that hasn't finished with love for me and hope for a future together - it is the first end I have believed in. And the first time I have been able to actually let go with my heart, as well as with my head.
All I now need is a hug and quiet and space and my family around me: time to lick my wounds, feel adored and decide what I need to do next so that I can move forwards into a future that does not have him in it. I will not be writing about love again for a very long time: will not be thinking about it again, or feeling it. I do not want it in my head, and I do not want it in my heart. I was too scared to feel it for 28 years - too scared that it would hurt me as it has done - and now I'm putting it back where it came from: away from me. There is nothing left to say, and there is nothing left to feel. I am written out.
My story is no longer a love story: quite possibly never was one. It has been everything, and it has been too much. It has taken too much from me for too long, and given too little.
Just as all stories need a beginning, so they all need an end. This one is finally over. All I can hope is that perhaps, now, a new story can finally start.
And that it will be a much better story than the last one.
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