Not all stories have the luxury of finding the end.
Some, prolong and stretch until their elasticity thins into thread like fragility, weak enough to snap with the wind. These stories wait a long time, but are nevertheless lucky enough to arrive to a resolution.
Some find themselves disrupted, broken like a mirror shatters itself into pieces, never to be whole again. There is no hope for these stories.
Then there are others, still, which are abrupted, like an intermission, but continue to exist. They prolong themselves in the hope that they would resume, find their ends in time. The characters of this story continue to live independently, consumed by their own little universes, somewhere believing in the illusion that what started would end, that they would someday cross each other and pick right from where they left off. But this never happens; the intermission goes on eternally. These kind of stories find themselves deprived of the luxury of finding an end; of obtaining a formal closure.
They leave their characters dangling at the edge of a cliff, barely hanging on, somewhere hoping to find a conclusion that would never arrive.
We are this story.