My heart aches for what is untrue. Not real. Fiction.

Growing up, I loved fiction. Any kind, as long as it seemed real.
As I got older, I wanted more. I wanted the endings to be different. But of course, they would never be different, not unless you made it different yourself.

People who were meant to die, lived. People who were meant to be together, apart. Fiction is what you make of it. You control the controlled. You alter it to make yourself happy. Not others.

She lived so she could love, and then she died...
Not in your story. She didn't die, she was relentless towards death.