The story begins, and we are, hopefully, hooked in by a daring first sentence. Someone wears something they shouldn't, a quip is made, or perhaps murder is declared.

And then, it catches us.

We urge onto the next sentence and the next paragraph. We start to lose our sense of personal rhythm and instead adopt the one the writer wants us to adopt. A sentence goes on and on, almost longer than it should have been. But not quite. No more. The flow changes, and the structure of the words vary as well. We jump. We dive. We unwillingly hold a breath to release it later.

But the trap is well set by now.

We're hooked.

Engaged.

A single word has now replaced a complete paragraph. It doesn't take more now; we get it. Punctuation and vocabulary commence getting complicated—more sophisticated. Mere commas and periods won't be enough; for now, the author has our attention, we need to keep entertained. Engaged.

Like a magician waving their hand on the stage of their own making, we cross paths with an introduction. Those we have just met grow under our eyes and see themselves being put in some danger.

There's a plot now—a narrative.

If the prose has done its job well enough, we are willing to excuse a misstep. Or two. An arc begins, and we may see maps and quotes embellishing the start of chapters.

Every story has a beginning, but not all of them live long enough in our attention-seeking lives to see their middles being read by our eyes. And the author knows them.

They plan a twist.

Or two.

The riddle that had been being slowly unraveled until now, spindles. The great outdoors. The change. Transformation.

Beginnings are alluring. They showcase possibilities. They wrought magic into our minds, and words become pathways for another's imagination.

But that's not enough.

It never is.

It's the middle of the story where you'll know if you've made it. If the words and the sentences, if grammar and punctuation, hopes and dreams if they had done it.

If you're not only hooked but invested.

Alas, if you're not, they will understand. They'll try it again and pen new worlds and new stories, and perchance one will be enough and do you good. Or perhaps other hands will guide you to where you wanted to be.

But for the rest? Well, middles are never easy.

The unknown is gone now. We have bought the story and the stakes.

We care now.

Will they? Won't they?

Middles get the hard job of extending what we had first learned about. Expanding worlds and promises. Making us—that is, you—believe. Dream.

And everything needs to work perfectly, the magician at its best. They'll conjure the word that you expect but also summon the one you don't. You've grown used to them by now. Authors, that is. You've noticed their patterns and welcomed their skill. You've learned to anticipate when a long sentence begins. And when it does not. When something will flow and twirl and carry you from start to end. And then stop. Abruptly.

It's that promise, it's that world, those moments that get tenser and tenser, those that keep you going. You may tumble. You may forget.

It's ok.

They won't mind.

They've poured souls and brains and years, but in the end, the story, for them, is done. The dance has just begun. You're doing the hard work now. Transversing from the first sentence, climbing page after page, witnessing what's left grow thinner and thinner while the past widens its length.

And then it happens.

Things just won't work.

Obstacles arise, and plans get foiled. The bad guys win.

But they? The protagonists? They'll be fine.

They're not alone.

You've gone through much by now, and you won't rest until you're there with them, carrying them till the very end.

Interludes may appear. Chapters will end.

A new part may be, but the stakes will continue.

Long-forgotten oaths are remembered, and the same phrases that caused you pain at the start will comfort you as you see them reappear, old friends, getting back to rescue you, showing you what's familiar.

All stories that being must end, for only the ending, their conclusion, is what makes them real. Worthy. And many will remain unread. Unfinished.

The dance may have begun, but it's on you—on us—to finish it.

And so we do.

We walk.

We read.

We live.

Promises are held, and alliances reforged. We see twists and surprises for what they are: lights at the end of the tunnel.

The voices you've been, the people you are, they all will walk t through you and with you, until the last word. And you're near.

Sometimes, the story will end before it has finished. Those are treats, and you may cherish them like that.

Other times, the tale will go on. Other stories will extend their hand to this one, and together will form something greater. Bigger. And we may accompany them on their journey or feel that's enough for now.

The author will understand.

We will.

The hefty tome on hour hands, or mayhap the digital volume, gets unmanageable by now.

What was before weighs more than what's to come. It always does. It always happens.

The past can be shackles, weighing us down, making us tread with effort and pain. But it also can show us how much we've achieved.

Those paragraphs, and pages and chapters: we've conquered them. We've walked through them and remain.

The last page arrives, and the flow steadies itself. It may not jump as much as it once did. Not anymore, no more. Thoughts may become more long-winded, and reflections can muddle our way till the last step, but that's ok. The story has earned its moment to say goodbye, seeing everything that once was with fresher eyes.

Weary eyes.

And then they bow, they always do.

The characters. The stories. The words.

They bow down to us, and they clap us. One last time. One last salute.

We've made it, and we're here now, and that's the end. The conclusion settles down, even if it's not finite, even if it'll go on.

Because this is not the story that someone wrote and thought to tell us. It Is the one we made ourselves. No book will ever be read the same, twice. Not even by us.
For we are all different from the ones that started the tale. We've changed. We died the hero's death and cried their lament.

And now it's over, and we're over, and yet we're not.

One story is done, yes, but hear me now: there's always one more.