I prefer stories that begin at the end.

We don’t talk anymore. Only someone that I used to know. Denial. The last call, last goodbye. The unraveling, undoing of something beautiful.

Uttered intentions. Your hand in mine, a calming constant in the rough tide. Days and nights without end. Inside jokes. The swift passing of time. Witty banter.

Cotton candy, melt-in-your-mouth, sugary sweetness. Gag-inducing firsts. I met someone.

I prefer stories that begin at the end.

They hurt less.