I am leaving—but not in the way you think.

Unlike some, I only enjoy the middle of scenarios in life, not the beginnings. Beginnings are too bright, too full of expectations—ready for a downfall. Endings are unbearable, gut-wrenching, oblivion-bound. They hang on the shoulders like heavy, cold raindrops, pulling you toward a place you don’t want to go but eventually must face. Beginnings and endings often feel like bookends, cold, odd and yet robust, pressing too tightly against the softness of life.

The middle of a game, just before halftime, where players are sweating, hopes are still high, and the crowd is full of fighting spirit. The stadium roars like a living creature, beating in anticipation, suspended in a moment that feels like shared victory. Nothing decided, nothing destroyed.

The middle of a conversation-still full of hope and honesty. Words land gently, unburdened by the fear of first impressions or the beloved sting of final ones. You’re simply there. Standing. Sitting. Listening. Truth or half-truths are exchanged. In the middle of the day, just after morning has broken and before the afternoon arrives, the atmosphere is building, pressure around me. Time feels suspended, holding its breath: birds in mid-flight, bees drinking sweet nectar. The sun lingers at an angle that feels neither intrusive nor fading, a reminder that life has rhythm, and some rhythms are made to be held.

This is where I feel most alive—the sweet pivot of comfort awaiting.

Comfort. That is what I find there.

I cannot endure an ending. I’ve come to acknowledge that the middle beats to its own rhythm. It won’t rush you. It won’t demand you act or decide. It offers a warm melody under your skin, pressing against your chest, never too hard, never too soft. It’s like lying between two heartbeats-the moment after something has happened but before the consequences arrive.

The middle carries you to a place of relaxation, like a river gently letting you flow within it. Thinking. Drifting. Wandering. Imagining endless possibilities—without a forceful current to rip them away. In the middle, imagination expands rather than compresses. Possibility stretches out like a road without potholes, like a horizon untouched by storm clouds.

Everywhere I see it: the sweet middle of a song, right before the chorus ascends into a climax-just before the resolution floods the air-makes my heart catch a pang. That suspended, electric hum, where repetition melts into anticipation. That’s where I want to stay. In the notes that hover like they know something you don’t, like they’re whispering a promise: not yet, not yet.

I feel that few experience it as I do; if they do, they endure it only briefly. Most rush to beginnings, full of promise, or to endings, wishing for the wait to be over. They want closure, definitions, neat boxes, and tied-up threads. But life is not embroidery—it’s fabric unraveling and being rewoven constantly.

Amy at the library craves a fresh start, rearranging her desk every Tuesday. She believes a new configuration erases stale energy. My cousin watches movies only for their endings, fast-forwarding as if the climax were a prize to be rushed. She says the ending tells you “what mattered,” but I think the middle tells you how.

People strive for the coming and the going, never the staying.

I build my life around the middle. Midpoints. On my walk home or past the half-empty parking lots of Kenny’s laundromat, I savour the slowing of time, lingering in it. Reading a book, watching a film, creating art, I fear that continuing will lead to a conclusion. The moment I feel myself nearing a finish line. Any finish line. I halt. I hold my breath. I flip back a page. I stare at the ceiling. Anything to keep the middle from slipping through my fingers.

I enjoy:

• the pause between birds chirping
• the middle of my black tea, cooling slightly in its half-broken mug

I also savour the mid-sentence sighs people let out when they’re tired—those soft collapses of air. The middle of a long exhale during yoga class, not the start of the stretch or the release at the end. The moment between laughter and silence, when you’re still buzzing with joy. The half-smile someone gives before they fully commit to being happy.

Life, like time, does not wait—and middle moments can vanish before we notice.

Last fall, it all halted—abrupt, unannounced, relentless. A relationship I believed unending bore a sudden, sharp ending. One moment, I was lingering in my happy middle. Then it was gone. No warning, no gradual descent—just a door slammed shut, the sound echoing long after the hinges stopped trembling.

I remember the exact moment: holding a newspaper too tightly, reading the classifieds, as light fell through the grand bay window. Dust floated in the air like tiny planets suspended in orbit. The middle I had craved began to crumble. Suddenly, I felt the fragility of all the midpoints I had ever cherished.

For days, I could not breathe. The city felt louder, sharper, more overwhelming. Cars honked with more aggression. Steps on pavement sounded like hammer strikes. Time didn’t stretch anymore—it snapped. I noticed everything: a neighbour closing their door after receiving a pizza delivery, a child tossing a ball through a hoop, a plane landing before taking off. Each moment felt like a reminder that life refuses to pause for grief.

Wandering, lingering in middles, I acknowledged that the world shifts—with or without me. The middle was bleak. I realised it was not just comfort I had sought—it was safety. The middle had been a shield against the inevitable. A soft shelter that kept storms at bay, or so I believed.

Endings hurt. They demand attention. Desire. Loss. Maturity. The middle comes and goes, only offering a temporary hold on time.

I began to find it again in:

• writing a letter
• jogging - the sweet spot between running and sprinting
• listening to trees sway in a midday breeze

I lingered with precious moments. Life always opens doors to unforeseen endings. The trick is accepting the doorway without stepping through too quickly. When I walk home, the afternoon air shifts, blending into a warm formation, letting me exist in the middle once more.

Comfort. Here, I rest easiest. At ease. Content. Still unable to endure an ending. Still unable to face the tight knot of finality. The middle is my refuge, my solace, my chosen terrain.

I let the blissful moment stretch, allowing it to coexist, co-live, swaying in quiet, in a place where nothing has been concluded. A place where the story is still shaping itself, like clay waiting for hands brave enough to sculpt it.

Even the moon tilts in the sky, held in silent pause—a place where everything stays in limbo. Waxing or waning, never fully claiming either identity. I like to think the moon understands me.

Another one is about to begin. Another middle waiting. Already humming its soft, persuasive rhythm.

So, I am leaving. But I will take the middle with me. Wherever I go, it will follow, like a shadow made of soft breath, like a companion who knows I fear the edges. I’ll collect midpoints the way others collect souvenirs, gathering the warmth of tentative moments in the palms of my hands.

I am leaving—but not in the way you think.