Despite what we read in books and see in films, we are surrounded by unfinished stories.
Maybe it’s just me. But I enjoy finishing them in my imagination. I see people stopped at traffic lights. They’re looking dead ahead and nervously tapping their fingers while the hands of their watches tick frustratingly slow. I wonder what’s buried beneath their vacant expressions. Where are they rushing to? And where would they rather be going?
In cafes, I often see couples locked in eye contact and oblivious to time all together. I wonder about how they first met and where they will be in five years. I believe in happy endings so I always assume the best.
These flowers in my apartment’s letterbox recently caught my attention. My first thought was how someone’s going to be pleasantly surprised when they come home from work.What’s the special occasion? Or maybe there isn’t one. Perhaps someone pulled a page from my book and left them with a note that simply said, “just because”.
Then a few days passed; the weekend came and went .As the flowers started to wilt, the story started to change. I considered that maybe they’re part of an unwanted apology. Maybe the recipient has been on holidays with someone else – making the flowers a gesture of unrequited love. Or maybe the recipient has been away in hospital and these flowers are an attempt to lift their spirits. I’m hoping it’s something alone these lines.
I’ll never know. I came home today and the flowers were gone. Even though this story lasted for a while, it still ended like all the rest: unfinished. But I feel it’s better this way. It’s our chance to write the kinds of stories we want to hear; the stories we want to believe in. Because anything that can happen to other people can surely happen to us.