The tiny swirls in his coffee make out a shape almost resembling a bleeding heart. There's a stain on the hardwood to the right of his right hand, currently occupied by tapping a rhythm only he knew on the surface. He had tried wiping off the stain a few times with the sleeve of his sweater, but to no avail. It was stuck there forever. A scar representing a sort of happening that left the table different from what it was before. He gripped the dandelion in his left hand that rested on his lap. It was time for him to accept the story as it is and move on to the next chapter, no matter how badly he wants to skip back to the beginning of the novella and relive all the good times. He knows he can't relive those times, it will never feel the same to only turn the pages back. He'll never feel the new happiness again. It will only feel recycled.

He took a glance at the book sitting across from him. He knows what to do now.