Maybe it was never about the happy ending, maybe it was always about the story we were brave enough to live. The story that held both the laughter and the ache, the goodbyes we never prepared for and the hellos that felt like fate. Maybe it's about the nights when our hearts broke quietly under the weight of what could've been and the mornings when we still chose to rise, brush off the dust, and keep walking anyway. Because somewhere between all the chaos, there were moments that glowed, the kind smiles from strangers, the rain-soaked confessions, the unexpected warmth of someone simply understanding you. Maybe the story was never meant to be perfect, just honest, raw with its cracks, messy with its feelings, real with its flaws. Maybe it's about how we loved deeply even when it hurt, how we gave without expecting, how we tried even when the odds said we shouldn't. I think the endings are just small punctuation marks, but the story, oh, the story, that's where we learn who we are. It's where we stumble, lose, forgive, begin again, and find beauty in things we once cursed. So maybe the goal was never a happy ending, maybe it was to live something that moved us, changed us, wrecked us, rebuilt us, something that made us feel deeply enough to say, "Yes, I lived this." Because in the end, it's not about how it ends, but how it felt while it lasted, the story that made us human, imperfect, and beautifully alive.