I told myself
I wouldn’t want the whole thing
until I was ready.
Until life was lined up,
neatly,
adult-like.
But then she came
As the slice
I didn’t know I was hungry for.
Just enough
to taste what I’d been missing.
Not enough
to keep me full.
Some part of me
is still sitting with that slice
not asking for more,
just remembering the taste.
I told myself
I’d wait.
Until the dust settled.
Until I knew who I was.
Until the timing made sense.
And then she showed up
not in the script,
but too vivid to ignore.
I followed the story
even when I couldn’t see the ending.
Even when the pages
started writing themselves.
Now, the story’s paused.
The inks dried up.
And I’m left
not craving a sequel,
not hunting for a rewrite,
just…
staring at the blank space
after the last line.