Some Things Don't Know How to End

I've been thinking a lot about goodbyes lately.

I'm not sure when it started.

Maybe because some things simply end, while others can't seem to decide whether they're over or not.

In programming, at least, this tends to be a little simpler.

You start a process, something happens and, eventually, it ends. Sometimes successfully. Sometimes with an error message that takes up half the terminal.

But it ends.

Or it should.

I've had a few processes that disagreed.

In real life, things seem to work differently.

Some goodbyes don't look much like goodbyes.

Sometimes you close a door knowing you'll probably open it again. You just don't know when. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few months.

And the strangest part is that, after a while, you start to recognize the sound of that door closing.

That doesn't make it easier.

It just makes it familiar.

I used to think that when something ended, there would be some specific moment when you'd simply realize it.

A last conversation. A last time somewhere. Something that clearly separated the before from the after.

But it doesn't always happen that way.

Sometimes you just notice that it's been a while since the last time.

And you keep going about your day.

You wake up, work, study, listen to music, open the computer and try to figure out why something that worked yesterday decided to stop working today.

The world has this slightly inconvenient habit of carrying on.

Even when it feels like some part of it stood still.

01.Places That Keep Waiting

I've been working on something a little different lately.

It still involves programming, obviously. I think I've lost the ability to have an idea without imagining how to turn it into a repository.

But this time, I started with the feeling.

Not with the architecture, the technologies or a list of features.

I started by thinking about a place.

A place where people arrive, spend some time and, eventually, have to leave.

I still don't know exactly how I want everything to work.

I know I'd like there to be small details that, at first glance, don't seem important.

A chair that stays where it is.

A light on in a window.

Two cups on a table, even when there's only one person to drink from them.

Maybe nobody will notice.

That's fine.

I like the idea of building things that don't need to be explained right away.

Most of the time, when I'm programming, I want everything to be pretty clear. A function should do what it promises. A button needs a purpose. An error should say what went wrong.

Which, apparently, is still too much to ask of some programs.

But not everything we create has to work that way.

Sometimes I want someone to find something and simply feel like they've been there before.

Even if they never have.

01.1The Problem With Coming Back

There's something about reunions that puzzles me.

We tend to imagine that going back means finding what we left behind.

The same place. The same people. The same conversations.

But there's no good way to pause the world while we're away.

Things keep happening.

Someone moves the furniture around. A tree grows. A wall gets a crack that wasn't there before.

And we change too, even without noticing.

Maybe that's what makes some returns so strange.

You recognize everything.

But something feels slightly out of place.

I've been thinking about how to represent that in code.

Not necessarily with big events or dialogue that tells the player what they should feel.

Maybe it's enough to go back to a place and notice that one small thing has changed.

Or that something stayed exactly the same, when everything else should have changed by now.

I'm still trying to figure it out.

It's funny, because technically, it's pretty easy to make an object stay where it is.

Making that mean something is another story.

01.2Things We Leave Behind

I think goodbyes don't only happen between people.

Sometimes we say goodbye to places, to habits, to things we used to want very much.

Sometimes we don't even notice we're doing it.

You spend years imagining that someday you'll have the courage to start something.

Then, on some random Tuesday, you start.

There's no background music.

Nobody shows up to announce that a new chapter of your life has begun.

You just do the thing that used to seem impossible.

And the next day you still have to do the dishes.

I've been enjoying this part of growing up.

Not the dishes, exactly.

But the feeling that some things that seemed so far away are now a little closer.

At the same time, it's strange to realize that certain versions of ourselves disappear without any goodbye.

I don't think there's a way to keep all of them.

Maybe there shouldn't be.

But sometimes I wish I could go back for a few minutes and tell a few things to someone I used to be.

They probably wouldn't believe me.

I'm not sure I would either.

01.3I Haven't Found an Ending Yet

I don't know if all of this will work the way I imagine.

Maybe I'll spend weeks trying to turn a feeling into a mechanic and find out it doesn't work.

Maybe the dialogue will turn out strange.

Maybe nobody will understand why there are two cups on that table.

Or maybe someone will understand something completely different from what I was thinking.

Actually, I think I'd like that.

I don't want every detail to have a hidden answer waiting to be discovered.

Some things can just exist.

Like a song that reminds us of something we can no longer quite explain.

Or a place that feels familiar even after a long time.

Or a goodbye that, somehow, keeps happening.

I still have a lot of code to write.

And a few things to figure out that probably have nothing to do with programming.

I don't know exactly how this story ends.

Maybe I'll find out while I build it.

Or maybe some things simply don't know how to end.