We’re left with empty paper sheets where the next chapter of our almost never-ending story should have been written. We both ran out of ink— no refills, nothing left to give, no more.

It’s sad that we ended tragically, but what’s even more miserable is the thought that perhaps we are bound to write a whole new book in the arms of someone else.

If only we didn’t spill some ink, we could’ve still written some more.