Endless Midnight

It didn’t end the way it did in fairytales. It didn’t start that way, either. We were rather like an endless current of waves, constantly crashing into each other that inevitably would be pulled apart by an unknown and unstoppable force. The only trace of our meeting, a trail of pieces left behind on the shore. A ring, a letter, an unanswered text message sent at 3:03 am.

Where are you? Read at 3:32 am

In fairytales, there is always a lesson to be learned. A moral. Something to remind you that it was all worth the trouble in the end. That even when the shining armor takes on a dull hue and the ballgown is ripped to shreds, the sweet remembrance of love endures.

Our love didn’t endure. Our love was a taut string—a balancing act—a man walking on a wire strung between two immovable objects. Each word spoken was another shaky step across. A carefully placed foot, one in front of the other, for fear that if I moved too quickly, my fate would be a plummeting fall onto the concrete below.

“You promised me you’d call,” I’d say.

“I knew you wouldn’t answer.”

In fairytales, the princess would be swept off her feet and into the ballroom. The crowned Chosen One out of the crowd to accompany the prince. The beginning of their happily ever after.

Our ballroom was cold kitchen tiles. The room illuminated by the soft glow of candles I forgot to blow out. Our music was the symphony of crickets outside the window.

But just like in fairytales, when the clock strikes midnight, the spell is broken. And in the morning you have to pick up the pieces from the floor. Through squinted eyes, diamonds shattered in all directions.

Fairytales never tell you the end though. Not the real one. After the princess moves into the castle and realizes that she has lost all freedom she had before. But we still tell ourselves that their story was a happy ending. We need to. Why wait until the story turns sour to end it? It’s much easier to remember the joy.

Our story may not have ended like fairytales, and true, I don’t believe in them anymore. But maybe there is something in between. Something real. Something worth telling about.

The chimes of midnight are the catalyst for better things to come. My curse is now broken, and I can walk into the world. Whole. I stand no longer on a wire, but rather a bridge. Sturdy and strong, it carries me to a better world. Where the flowers still smell sweet, and the fruit is ripe.

Maybe our love did not end like it did in fairytales. There was no knight in shining armor. No witches or castles. But I can write my own tale. One that tells of a broken woman who made herself whole again.

And happily then, she lived.