“Why don’t you ever finish a book?”

 

 

I stopped turning the page midway as she asked me that question which sounded so surreal to me. Kept my head hung, I don’t wish to meet her eye to eye.

 

 

 

 

“Habit.”

 

 

One word was all I could afford. My fingers continue moving and the page turned. The next thing I knew, I find myself, once again, captivated by the printed words.

 

 

 

 

She is a writer, and I am a reader. It’s always been like that for the past twelve years. This book is one of the many originals she gifts me every birthday.

 

 

The first book she gifted me was one far from the word flawless. It was full of fault yet I could not keep my eyes off it. That’s probably when she decided to gift me one of her works every year.

 

 

I love reading. A lot. In the slow world where nothing seems to ever change, the journey a work of fiction could take me to heals the severe boredom I wouldn’t be able to deal with otherwise.

 

 

But a habit of mine is to never finish the books I read. I would read and read with no break, but would stop the last 46 pages. An odd number, can’t come up with a reason other than the fact that it feels right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“But isn’t the point of a journey the end?”

She asked me again, more demanding of a tone this time.

 

I kept mum.

 

“Wouldn’t it feel incomplete without a perfect ending?”

So, she asked again.

 

 

 

 

“If I don’t witness the ending, the journey would go on forever,” I said as I turn yet another page. I’m guessing I’ve got 60 more pages to go.

 

 

 

“You don’t want it to end?”

 

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next thing I knew, she was on her feet, staring down at me. Her shadow covering the words on the book, making it challenging to read. I lifted my head and met her eye to eye.

 

 

“What is it?” I asked, shortly.

 

 

“I made a perfect ending this time.”

 

 

“Such thing does not exist.”

 

 

“It does, and you will get it if you hold on until the end.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weird.

 

A perfect ending, such thing I do not believe in. A perfect ending for me would be an ending where nothing ends. An ending where their story would go on past eternity. But eternity is not something one could ever reach, be it real life or fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

But she tells no lie. I know her.

 

 

A proud smile plastered on her face, as if inviting me to the grand ending she had prepared for me.

 

 

Bizarre. I feel a sense of excitement in me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came back to the book. Turning yet another page.

 

 

Another.

 

 

 

And another.

 

 

 

 

One more.

 

 

 

 

Again.

 

 

 

 

 

50.

 

 

 

 

 

49.

 

 

 

 

48.

 

 

 

47.

 

 

46.

 

 

 

My fingers froze. I never make it past this.

 

 

Something inside me urged myself to end the story here. Close the book, wait another year for yet another story, just like what I’ve been doing for the past 12 years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But she never lies.

I want to believe her.

 

 

 

 

 

So, I took a deep breath. A smile unconsciously formed on my face.

 

 

 

I lift my finger to turn the page again.

 

 

What is it the perfect ending she had written? If a perfect ending does exist, I wish to be the one to witness it.

 

 

Flick

The sound of the page turning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But it is empty.

 

The whole page is empty. Not one word was printed on it.

 

 

I desperately turned the pages.

 

Another page.

 

 

 

Yet another one.

 

 

Again.

 

Non-stop.

 

 

 

One more.

 

 

4.

 

 

 

3.

 

 

2.

 

 

1.

 

 

 

I reached the final page. Yet it was all empty.

 

 

 

 

All 46 pages that was supposed to be filled with a perfect ending; it was empty.

 

 

Is it disappointment I am feeling?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I met her eye to eye again, asking for the perfect ending she had promised me.

 

But she just stood there, smiling so widely without a word, as if she is mocking me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, I guess I got tricked.