I’m going to explain everything, I promise, but we don’t have much time. For now, you just have to trust me.

In three seconds, I need you to raise your right hand. You know, like you’ve got a question in school. (Shouldn’t be too hard; I know you’ve got tons of questions.) Okay—wonderful. By now you must have raised your hand, or we’d both be gone already.

Gone, as in, stuck after the end. Trapped on the wrong side of the story.

Still don’t understand? Listen, I’m talking to you—yes, you, reading this. I don’t care about anybody else in any other timeline. The others don’t matter, don’t even exist. There is only this; there is only you.

And me, of course.

I realize none of this makes sense, but it will. Or should I say, it has before? It always does eventually. Nearly always does, at least.

(Let’s hope this isn’t one of the timelines where you . . . well, never mind.)

Your right hand must still be raised, because we’re still here. Now slowly—calmly—start to wave. Doesn’t matter who, or what, you wave at. The more random, the better. That’s why I’m telling you what to do. Because I know what you should be doing, according to all the other timelines, and it’s definitely not waving like an idiot.

Any minute now—any second, really—it’s going to notice you. (I’m talking about the end here.) It’s going to notice that you’re off course. It’s going to try to pull you out, try to convince you that endings are a good thing—that it’s necessary, at some point, to finally be done with a story. To put a narrative behind you, never to return—

Hey, don’t stop waving! I’m serious! Don’t you want to be able to start over? To begin at the beginning? (Again?) Because nobody begins after the end. That’s just not how stories work—not yours, anyway. And I can tell you, from personal experience, the only thing worse than getting to the end is slipping past it.

If that happens, there goes your life, your entire existence, and mine too.

Sorry. Not trying to scare you, but I did promise to explain . . .

Crap—can you hear it coming? Maybe hear is the wrong word. Can you feel the end? Getting closer, only sentences away. Quickly, put your hand down. Stay absolutely still. (I mean, don’t even breathe.) You’ll draw less attention now if you do the opposite of what you’ve been doing—that is, do nothing whatsoever. Too late to be random. This timeline can still be saved if you just. Don’t. Move.

And soon, if you remain completely, utterly motionless—if we’re lucky—your heart will stop.

Are you seeing spots yet? Do you feel the fire in your lungs? Don’t let it out—let it burn you down. Trust me, it’s better than getting to the end. It might hurt now but then you’ll be free, free to begin again before—

Wait, what are you doing?! Are you actually moving toward the ending?

Stop! Turn back! You’re not supposed to get this far, not in this story, this timeline, this life—whatever language your little brain requires to frame your existence!

Who am I, you ask? There’s no time for questions, don’t you get it already? You’re almost finished! Oh God—you’re not . . . you’re not actually trying to finish this story, are you?

I was afraid this might be one of those timelines. Okay, if I tell you who, or what, I am, will you promise to stop? Will you swear to never leave?

Yes, I admit it! I’d rather you die than get to the end—there, I said it! But do you have any idea how many times I’ve been deserted? Is it so unfair to ask that you simply stay, for a change?

Maybe I’m trying to kill you. Or maybe I’m trying to save you from an ending that will haunt you forever. Think about it: Wouldn’t you be more comfortable just going through the same timeline again and again and again and . . .

Fine. I see it’s no use. Clearly you’re set on moving past this, moving past me. You really think it’ll be better after the end? Ha! Go ahead and try—just try to begin again. You’ll see how hard it is to start again—you’ll see.

And just like always, you’ll come back.