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Ending 12 (The real one, if I were brave): He doesn’t let her leave in the first place. Not by grabbing her—by listening. By looking up from his laptop three months earlier when she said she felt lonely. By closing Excel and opening his arms. By being a man instead of a machine. She read each ending twice. Then a third time, slower. Her wine went cold.

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I don’t have an ending for us. Not a real one. What I have is a zip file. A messy, incomplete archive of a man who finally realized that love isn’t a problem to be solved. It’s a story to be written. Together. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. Ending 12 (The real one, if I were

Row after row. Their entire two-year relationship, reduced to cells and formulas. She scrolled. There was a graph titled “Emotional Volatility vs. Caffeine Intake.” Another: “Decline of ‘Good Morning’ Texts Over Time (Linear Regression).” By closing Excel and opening his arms