There’s something about finishing a book that depresses me.
I mean, think about it. Last chapter, the action ended the chapter before. Now we’re wrapping up. The surviving characters get their just desserts, plot threads are wrapped up, loose ends are tied, relationship status is finalized, they leave, the author hits us with something to think about, the characters leave and shut the lights behind them.
And that’s where they leave me. I close the book, and there I am, sitting on an unmade bed in a half-dark room with the only light leaking through the blinds.
For them, the story’s over. And all I can do is ask myself… what now?