I’m envious of the idea of closure,
in that I’ve never felt life was gracious enough to give me any.
It’s a way of giving our broken hearts a false sense of healing.
False only because the pain always remains, or returns…
perhaps in different fonts, different projections,
but never truly leaving, until you allow it to.
And despite knowing that closure has always come from within,
I’m envious of the moments my heart never received…
that brief, artificial permission to grieve,
to believe, even for a second, that things would be okay,
or that maybe it wasn’t my fault.
The friendships that walked away.
The relationships that never fulfilled the vision I had built in my head.
The passion projects that never saw the light of day.
The endings that never really ended…
Just stopped.
Yes, they hurt.
But before they hurt, they confused me.
I was left with this uncomfortable feeling
of not knowing if it was okay to cry.
Not knowing whether there was still
a twist somewhere further down the script,
one that would make today’s tears all in vain.
So I waited.
Waited to decide whether it was truly over.
Whether I was allowed to grieve.
Whether I could finally put it down, or if I would only have to pick it back up again.
And that is the cruelest part of hope.
It doesn’t always keep you going.
Sometimes, it keeps you waiting.
Waiting for an ending that may have already happened.
That is the moment I think
where hope betrays you.
By: Ishaan Cheema