Writers 
I bought a painting
with no ending.
The artist had left
the canvas half-empty
a blue sky
with one missing cloud,
a road disappearing
before it reached
the horizon,
and a woman
standing in the middle
of nowhere.
I asked the artist,
“Why didn't you finish her?”
He smiled.
“She isn't finished.”
I thought he meant
the painting needed more color.
So I bought some.
I painted flowers
beside the road.
I added birds
to the sky.
I gave the woman
a beautiful house
in the distance.
Then I painted
a man beside her,
because surely
every lonely story
needed someone.
But the next morning,
the man was gone.
The house was gone.
The flowers had disappeared.
Only the woman remained.
Still standing.
Still looking
toward the unfinished road.
I became angry.
“What do you want?”
I asked her.
She didn't answer.
So I painted her
a destination.
A golden city.
A perfect career.
A life filled
with everything
I thought happiness
was supposed to look like.
The following morning,
the city had vanished too.
But something
had changed.
The woman
was smiling.
I stared at her
for a long time.
Then I finally understood.
I had spent years
trying to finish
my own life
with things
that were never mine.
Other people's dreams.
Other people's timelines.
Other people's definitions
of success.
I thought the empty spaces
were mistakes.
They weren't.
They were invitations.
The road wasn't unfinished
because the artist
had forgotten the ending.
It was unfinished
because I was supposed
to walk it.
So I stopped painting.
I left the sky alone.
I left the road
without a destination.
I left the woman
exactly where she was.
And for the first time,
I understood
that a life does not need
to look complete
to be beautiful.
Some chapters
should remain open.
Some questions
should remain unanswered.
Some roads
should disappear
into the distance.
Because perhaps
the most beautiful thing
about becoming
is that nobody knows
exactly what you will become.
The painting still hangs
on my wall.
The woman is still there.
The road still waits.
And every morning,
when sunlight touches
the unfinished canvas,
I swear
she looks a little different.
Or perhaps
I do.
