You block C.'s number from your phone. You walk to your room with a great sense of calm, and idly thumb through your journal. The passages about C. are pathetic to you now—you can finally see it plainly.

There are certain sections—snippets of feelings and half-finished thoughts hastily scrawled—that are so childish you wish you could turn away from yourself. But it's fascinating to look back at the beginning when you've experienced the ending.

Other sections make you smile. Your fledgling dreams of grad school abroad, visiting friends in London, (and making amends with your mother.) You can still do all of that. There is always time; there is always more than this.

You curl up under the covers. It's still snowing outside.

This isn't your quarter-life crisis.

Not yet, and maybe never, if you're lucky.

If you're lucky, the way you have been, maybe you can continue your days like this. Accepting the peaks and valleys as they are, nothing more. There's no point in putting too much weight on it, or on anything at all.

You know what to do.

Just continue.