It’s supposed to be about the journey, not the destination.
Yet, it feels like I’ve reached the end.
This is my finale. The last season has just begun, but I can already see the credits rolling.
It’s calling my name. It’s all done. I’ve done it all already, haven’t I?
Yet, episode two’s release date on the calendar next week mocks me. I am foolish to picture the end as I open the mere first page.
Nonetheless, it is the last book in the series—my favorite series. I can’t imagine happening upon one that can top the one that has been comforting me for years.
It has all my favorite characters. It has all the best scenes—the one where the girl and her friends dance all night long and scream the lyrics to the songs they’ve claimed as their anthems. The one where they sit around and talk and watch the stars wink as the sky blushes a vibrant sunset pink. The one where they jump around, hugging each other, shrieking in excitement at their futures.
The one where they run around their old playgrounds and take their last walk around the memories littering each floor and corner of their high school. The one where they sit side by side in their green graduation robes, whispering the same inside jokes to each other that they’ve been dying of laughter over for the past seven years.
I can see the credits rolling, each one of their names saying one final goodbye.
The idealist of me sees the happy ending. Every scene too good to be true, that not even a fantasy could describe. The pessimist of me is already weeping for the end, a happy ending is an ending nevertheless.
I can see the end, the journey before, the journey complete.
My life is a story, and I’m impatient for that happy ending. I’ve started the final season, but I haven’t yet reached the season finale. I’m not close. Not at all.
There will be new characters—new scenes I will never expect.
But still, I can’t help but begin to guess at the ending, the changes, the rises, the falls.
The idealist in me sees the happy ending. Every scene too good to be true. So good that not even a fantasy could describe it.
The pessimist in me is already weeping for the end; nevertheless, a happy ending is an ending.
I have just over eight months left, thousands of more words left, millions of more moments left.
It has always been a journey and always will be.
Here’s to the musings of a pessimistic idealist.
Here’s to her journey.
Here’s to her finale.
