The sense of an ending 

I always thought I was very prepared for endings, and very conscious that things could end. Death comes, people move on, things change. But it turns out that I’m blind-sided anyway, and so winded I feel hollowed out. And then every little end stings a bit more:

The closing of a well-frequented cafe with no notice; the crack on my favourite shades; taking a picture of a cooked dinner when I didn’t use to be the one to take it, because I thought we had forever; every meal together; two mason jars of granola and yoghurt, but neither for me.

If I had known that was the last time you asked me to, I would have said yes every time.