It started with..
You were a chapter in my book, and I was merely a line in yours.
Then..
(I was) merely a thougt he did not even bother writing.
And..
I was just a flyleaf. Just sitting here, waiting. Yes, I am a part of you.. but meaningless, disregarded.
Until..
(I was) merely a period.
I was just a space to begin with. Yes, I exist but it was as if you never saw me.
I was your period, an exclamation that I thought was your ending. But you started your story again, with a space, really away from me. Yes, we only had an ending, no happiness or anything.
I was just a space in your book. Yes, I was with you all along, from beginning 'til the end. However, I feel used, disregarded, unseen. You only needed me for you to move on to your next word.. still, not seeing me as the person I really am.
You needed space, you said. I gave it to you. A space that lasted for so long, for you never added anything after that space, no more words, lines, or even another period.. I guess this is already our very last.
But then after all the other words that came after me, I still mattered to you. For your whole book will be utterly meaningless without me, you said. I was glad. I was glad that for once, that space was finally noticed and was important to you.
Another chapter has started, I thought I'll be there hanging after the space unnoticed. But then I was wrong, you tried to fill another page.. of words full of utter beauty, words of wisdom that we'll learn from. Maybe the period that I am will be there to end your words, for only then you can add another story 'til we reach our happy ending.
And in this book, you made a mistake. You covered it with words of apologies, to the point where you've began superimposing around it, I forgave you. However, it will never be the same again, the mess you made will forever be there.
I expected that the next chapter of our book would be better, but it's another mistake, I should've known. Little by little, letter by letter, word by word, character by character.. that "our" only became yours. You're selfish, I was hurt, you should've known.
...
Then, I waited again. Your words never came. Maybe that space I've allowed for you to have would now be eternal. No more other chapters, lines or even phrases. Our story never really reached its climax, we stayed too long in conflict. Will it even really matter if we reached it anyway? I think not, the pessimist period that I am always sees our falling action. This book will be left with its unspoken importance.. incomplete, unfinished, and soon will be untouched. Maybe, this is goodbye.
Only then did I find out that really was the end, our goodbye. It was as if you forgot about me. Sad, really sad. But it was just the beginning, later on I found out that you have someone else, someone new. You've began writing again, but not in the book that we shared, where I was, our happy memories, no. You've began writing again on a new book with a new person in mind, bringing life to the words you write down. I was jealous, broken.. forgotten.
A book ends with a period. And a long space meaning that there's no more next time. No matter how happy the ending was, it still ended. A story with no more than "the end" to be the closure.
