My fiance sat me down on our couch the other day, placed both of his hands atop my shoulders, and asked me if I was okay. I think he’s noticed my anxiety over writing the ending to this story. My methods of meditating over plot twists probably seem bizarre to him. They include long bouts of sitting in the shower with my head between my knees, muttering to myself. “No.. No… That’s to predictable. I can’t end the story that way… But what about—??”