“It could’ve had a happier ending.”
Roman looked at his younger sister, who pouted theatrically. “That’s not the point of the story, now, is it?”
He grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Oh, yeah? Then what was the point of the story, O Wise Creator of...
<p>“It could’ve had a happier ending.”</p>
<p>Roman looked at his younger sister, who pouted theatrically. “That’s not the point of the story, now, is it?”</p>
<p>He grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Oh, yeah? Then what was the point of the story, O Wise Creator of Stories?”</p>
<p>Amy snatched the handwritten pages out of his fingertips and stuck her tongue out at him. She was a little old for such immature acts, but as she frequently liked to say, he brought out the worst, most childish sides of her. He also did so without trying, which he personally considered to be a win.</p>
<p>“The point, O Idiot Brother, is that there isn’t always a happy ending. Sometimes life sucks the big one and there isn’t anything you can do about it. All you can do is suffer through it like a proper adult.”</p>
<p>“But isn’t that the point of fiction?” Roman countered. He loved seeing her like this, all moody and grouched. It was hilarious. “To escape from the reality of life? To escape the horrors of real, adult life?”</p>
<p>Amy rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Sometimes. And sometimes not.” Her eyes found his, suddenly very serious, dead on the center of his irises. “Sometimes, fiction is about nonfiction.”</p>
<p>“What’s this?” Roman startled out of his writings to stare at the man who had spoken. Well, “man” was a bit of a rough term for the behemoth who stood before him. “Giant”, perhaps, suited him better. And he wasn’t really a “man” at all; just another teenager, like Roman himself. He snatched the pages out of Roman’s hands and laughed.</p>
<p>“Aww,” he said in a mocking, babyish voice. “Does little Roman like to write angsty poetry?”</p>
<p>Roman’s face grew hot. As if it were that simple. As if it were anything less dire than the only thing holding his family together. Those writings were all that connected him to Amy, the only link between him and the sister he loved. They were what they did together when their parents were fighting: write about someone else’s pain, someone else’s problems. Lose themselves into the fiction of someone else’s worlds. And, occasionally, they would find themselves in those words, in those worlds, just by writing them down.</p>
<p>But he said no such thing...