Play. God.

I return, after such a long absence, to the Book. It lies there, waiting, dogeared and unkempt. I forget where I ended. I forget what the whole thing is about, or perhaps I only pretend to. I turn on a playlist from long ago, and I get to work.

Perhaps it's the music. Perhaps it's the sad note on which I last ended. But within a minute I am engrossed in the story, I forget about the room, the cold floor, the list of things to do before bed. Orphan puppy lies on my chest, wrapped in my college sweater, while I type furiously, trying to fight the story that is already there, the path of which is already clear.

I cannot save it. I cannot paint a brighter ending. It wrote itself in my mind long ago, and I fear with it, I wrote my own story as well. The playlist like exit music. End scene. I see a deadline looming up ahead. When I have to be finished with the book. When I have to be finished with the adventure.

Maybe people are never satisfied, she says. Maybe we always have the dream that got away, while we revert to what's safe, what's comfortable. I still regret the things that never were.

The draft from the window rushes down to the floor where I lie. It makes me shiver. How late is too late to rewrite our endings?