[ WP ] While organizing your bookshelf , you notice a book called `` The Story of You . '' You open it to find a description of your own life up to this point . As you flip farther , it details your existence until death .

It was the kind of thing that you ’ d talk about with your friends, ‘ shooting the shit ’, as it were. It was nice sometimes to just talk about dreams and aspirations – “ I wonder where I ’ ll be in five, ten, fifteen years ’ time ”. Some people were endlessly ambitious, and others wanted only a modest life, whilst others again found it impossible to think past the reality of the present. But me, the only place I saw myself in ten years ’ time was with you. So as I stand, reflectively stroking the leather-bound tome, tracing my finger around the embossed gold trim that simply read “ The Story of You ”, I wonder at the unfairness of it all. Why is my book so grand, so full of potential, a ‘ Completed Works ’, when yours could only have been a small paperback, an unfinished novella? I reach up and put my book back on the shelf. There was nothing in this book that could entice me, no ending that I could look forward to; I would give up ten chapters of my book for just a single page more of yours. 
 
 **My first ever submission, please, be gentle! **
