You thought it was all there— your being living in happiness, easy, breathing, true. Nothing tightened. Nothing asked to be different. It simply was. Until your natural being didn’t fit the script they needed you to follow— and suddenly your truth became wrong. You didn’t label it. You didn’t argue. You let it live where it lived. But someone who lives on happy endings will always see your happiness as unfinished. As not enough. It’s their form that collapses— their blueprint, their emptiness, their need. You felt stillness— the quiet proof you had already filled everything to its edge. But stillness isn’t allowed in a world made of endings. Everything must become a happy ending. More. More. More— until the living thing loses its shape. Happiness gets renamed. Reshaped. Shrunk. Refused. And then the world forms around it: a room full of happy endings but not happiness. Chairs filled, air held by a silence born of habit, not being. No one questions it. No one asks why. Because there is no being there— only the outline of what it was supposed to be. You don’t want the room. You don’t want the script. You don’t want the ending. You want happiness allowed to live— alive, felt, uncontained. There was never anything wrong with the happiness— only with the world that demanded an ending. When happiness is enough, presence breathes. No one reaches outside the moment to fill what is already full.
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