And so my heart opened to my sisters, each one of them, who I had never let myself love—but who I now discovered I loved nonetheless.
I grieved the loss of them, each one, the dead and the living.
I grieved the loss of Miach and Alessa, who I could have known, but chose not to.
My heart was a howl of pain for all I had lost, which is how I knew my heart had learned to love.
My long-ago lover, the poet—who I thought I had chosen not to love, but who I understand now, I loved nonetheless, and who I grieved as I never had before—once told me that mortals believe there are only two kinds of story, comedies and tragedies, their nature dictated by their ending. Stories that end happily, with love, are comedies, he told me. Tragedies are the stories that end with loss.
More mortal illusion.
All stories are driven by desire, and so all stories, all true stories, end in loss. No love can last forever.
