Every book has an ending, and maybe this one is mine. Even if it feels like it's been too short of a time to have really understood the contents. But sometimes you wonder; stories that end (even the neverending story has to finish), sometimes have sequels. There's a point in time, when a certain end becomes no different from an end that's certain. You'll know it when it comes to that - although i would hope nobody has to feel this - an odd yet searing sensation that constantly reminds myself that things are not meant to be perfect, no matter how much anyone might wish it.
Who are the authors? Who decides? Or were we never meant to know how long a story was ever meant to be told? Ironically, not every story which seems unfinished has a sequel, or maybe just not yet? I mean look at Jim Carrey, whose movies all seem like sequels regardless of when or who he produced it with: the essence of it being the retarded staleness of his juvenile humour.
Unfortunately, not all lives are recorded in words, many fleeting moments are just left to pass by, unnoticed, and uncharted - of experiences of pain and joy, friendship and betrayal. It's us who are left to find and experience those droplets of life. As a dear friend of mine would put it - it is what it is.