every second of the ending

You’re lucky to not be here for every second of the ending. As the adrenaline slowly ebbs from our veins, and the rivers of molten fear beneath our feet begin to coagulate. As every second suddenly seems to take a century, as our hearts resume a steady rhythm. Sure, there’s joy in that moment, in knowing that we finally made it, that our journey is over (and that we won, we actually won!) but more than that it’s just silence. And then we have to trudge our way back home, and along the way we’ll see that Aunt Ann’s and the rusted old playground by the diner and every little detail that we passed on the way here is exactly the same (probably even you, and I’m sorry, so sorry, to have to tell you this, and know that I don’t mean this as anything but the truth that I know you want to hear more than meaningless affirmations).

So you’re lucky to not have to be here for the ending, and I feel as though I have to say this to you, even though there’s a large chance that you’ll not believe it (with how badly you wanted to come with, and I get that, I would’ve been the same way if I was your age still). You’re lucky to have not been here for the ending, even if you’re upset you missed the journey. Because as we all trudge back silently, and have to force our broken pieces into the pattern that we thought had shattered with our departure, I can’t imagine a worse feeling to foist upon you.

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