You know those blank pages at the end of a book?
The ones there just to make the other pages with numbers line up?
Yeah. Those.
Those are for me.
I get to fill them with all the things that the book didn't say.
All the emotions and double meanings woven
Between the lines.
Scribbled hastily in the margins
The can all be neatly compressed into that
Great
White
Expanse at the end
All the words there mean more than any plot a chapter could hold.
These paragraphs tell a different tale.
One without page numbers or punctuation marks.
One that is constantly evolving.
Something only I understand.
Only I can see all the things I made up.
The things I let bloom from nothing into nothing.
I create stories so fantastical no would could believe them.
No one can understand.
It's all assumptions and hurt.
Compilations of innocent, mistaken gestures.
The paper holds a ticking time bomb. Waiting to explode and destroy every relationship I've ever had.
Because probably, none of it is real.
I am the protagonist and the antagonist.
The villain and the hero.
The winner and the loser.
No. Just the loser.
The stupid girl who created a magical world she couldn't escape from.
She allowed letters and words to imprison her.
And the worst part?
The words aren't even real.
But I'm still stuck between The End and the back cover. In those stupid, empty pages.
Trapped in my own delusions.