Kayo

 

The story starts, just like how every story starts. It was late at night, we were sitting by the beach, cozy by the fire, lightening up the pitch black sky. We talked, laughed, teased and we kissed, did all the little things to keep the fire going — on it cracked, and on it burned. We were alive.

 

And just like how every middle part of the story works like how every middle part of the story works, it started to rain, panic crept into our eyes, our hearts trying to claw out of our chests, our minds confused. Then we heard a sizzling sound — kssss, it was our fire, it was slowly dying out. We panicked as we tried to do what we could to save it. But the little things that we used to do didn’t work anymore.

 

We argued, we made up only to argue anew. We ended up angry, sad, and desperate — as the fire slowly died out, we did too.

 

The story ends just like how any other story ends, dawn was breaking, we were at the beach, the waves singing its morning tune — a soft ballad of weeesh and wooosh

 

tired,

 

we stared as our fire slowly turned to embers, and as the last remaining embers turned into ashes, we stood up, and left, with nothing but perpetual silence.

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