Does there always need to be a happy ending to every story?

Is that really, real life?

I have always been a romantic.

I romanticize everything: waking up, making breakfast – I stare wistfully outside my kitchen as the coffee pot does what coffee pots do – brew magic.

I wake up feeling romantic and grateful.

I make my breakfast perfectly, and then I eat it happily. 

Getting ready is romantic to me – washing, cleaning – creating a new slate to seize the day in, and gently doing my skincare. 

I love all of it. 

To me, that is what it is all about. 

The only part that is not so romantic, the part that puts a crack in this picture-perfect life that I live, is that that is it. That is where the romance ends. 

I am clean and ready, but there isn’t much else to do.

Every day, the objective is to find something to do 

Something new, something to take my attention away from the truth 

The routine that I so desperately want but can’t figure out.

My dilemma is not in any way unique

My issue is not the first of its kind 

It is a tale as old as time. 

“We go to high school. We explore different career interests in high school (as one does) 

The high school continues to force a decision by narrowing down the options and courses available. Sensitive to the pressure, we make a decision, some more sure than others. 

Soon enough, we are writing statements – begging big institutions to sit at tables that are far too expensive. ((That is important because you never forget it. And when you miss a lecture, skip a class, or fail a test, you see dollar signs, and you see them going down the drain.)) 

Nonetheless, the institutions offer a place, and we accept probably the most expensive seat we have ever taken. 

And so it begins and ends, a journey full of social highs, romantic lows, academic wins, and sleepless nights. 

All are working towards achieving a goal that some of us are not quite sure of.

And finally, after what feels like years upon years of work 

A failed course, a few missing assignments 

The institution hands us a paper 

On it is a supposed summary of the last five years 

On it a show, an allowance for our 5 minutes of fame.“

I look at the two lines on this paper, the two lines that show my accomplishment. 

I should feel more. I am supposed to, right? However, I look at this piece of paper, and I turn the paper around, wondering. I thought the paper would have some answers, but this paper is not a map.

There are no instructions on what to do next.

There is nothing there but my name and two lines saying what I did in the last 5 years. 

I am still grateful. I am still proud of myself for this moment. For my 5 minutes. I am grateful because while the piece of paper has two lines, I have stories. I have moments and memories, I have laughter, I have sadness, I have anger, and hopelessness. I have inspiration. I have the determination. 

I have the story about the girl who is still here despite it all. 

I finally leave the institution. It becomes a vault of memories, and I move onwards and upwards. I don’t look back; there is really nothing left for me here. 

I am content. This feels good.

I am aware of my lack of answers, my questions. I convince myself that they will come to me. 

I create space for time. 

That seems good. I think I am content. And for a while, everything is romantic.

Everything is new: New city, new room, new world, new characters, new everything. 

Same me.

That is the part they do not tell you about, the part that also kills the romance. 

Everything is new, but me 

Same baggage. Same trauma. Same cluelessness. Just a new canvas to spill that onto.

But I persist. 

And I keep things romantic. And I work, or at least try to work.

And I still keep a little space for time.

There are still questions, and the answers are still missing, but still, I wake up every day feeling romantic and grateful. I make my breakfast perfectly, and I eat it happily. And then I look for something to do, something to distract myself with.

I do not think about the cycle I have found myself in. The cycle of wanting more but not knowing where to start. 

I decide to create more space for time. For potential. 

I relinquish control and allow myself to flow with the current. I am careful to keep doing the work so that, at the very least, I stay afloat.  Life is still romantic because I romanticize everything, including the uncertainty. 

And I wonder about happy endings, if they exist, if they are necessary.

I wonder who happy endings are for 

If the characters know they live happily ever after or maybe just the people who cared to watch them. I wonder this as I close my laptop and brush my teeth. I wonder this as I get ready for bed. And as I fall asleep, I still wonder but I make sure to do so romantically.