sjsprWriting

It doesn’t feel like a goodbye. Goodbyes are quiet, grief-stricken creatures. Ones that cling to your knee caps as you try to move past, one foot in front of the other, anchors at your ankles. They move into your lungs, weigh down every breath. They fill you with a palpable desolation.

Goodbyes are ruin.

This is that wave you throw over your shoulder when you’re fighting past the kids in the hallway because your mother’s already called three times and you weren’t paying attention. This is that smirk and twirl combo you do, when you get away with the last word, only to turn back with a sheepish expression, hunting for your bag. This is that hug you give, every time, because a day spent not telling the people you care about that you love them is a day wasted. This is that “love you” given casually, at the end of every phone call. This is that arm thrown over someone’s shoulders, reeling them in and giving them a quick squeeze before rushing off. This is that phone of yours vibrating obnoxiously with incoming messages while you try to study and ignore your mom’s glares.

(“You just saw them,” she says, like a reason.)

This is not a goodbye. This is not a conclusion. This is not an end.

We are not stories with chapters or movies with credits. We are rolling, constantly, with no stops, no breaks, waiting for no one.

We are life. There is nothing final about this.