The Ending Was Never Mine - By Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun

Written By: Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

We are delighted to feature "The Ending Was Never Mine," a captivating short story by Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this introspective piece invites readers into a world of reflection and self-discovery. Eithar's narrative explores the delicate balance between personal ambition and societal expectations, weaving a poignant tale of identity and the paths we choose. This short story is a testament to the power of introspection and the enduring quest for authenticity.

About the Work

Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun's "The Ending Was Never Mine" beautifully captures the essence of internal struggle and the silent negotiations we make with ourselves. The story's mood is contemplative, with a narrative style that is both poetic and incisive. Through vivid imagery and compelling storytelling, Eithar explores themes of belonging, purpose, and the quiet compromises that shape our lives. The piece invites readers to ponder the subtle influences that guide our decisions, leaving an indelible impact on our perceptions of self-worth.

The Ending Was Never Mine

Original Submission by Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun

The house did not starve me of love. It measured it. Not through absence, but through careful allowance. Not rejection, but quiet redirection. It rested just beyond my reach, luminous enough to follow, distant enough to require change. I, obedient in ways I did not yet recognise, leaned.

When I was younger, I had not yet learned the discipline of containment. Words escaped me like light through fractured glass, ungoverned and excessive. I spoke in unfinished constellations, in fragile narratives that insisted on existing simply because I had imagined them. Stories lived in me, not as hobbies, but as quiet compulsions, pressing against my ribs with a persistence that felt dangerously close to purpose.

I carried a notebook like a second spine. Its pages were soft with overuse, its corners blunted, its margins crowded with ink that bled where I had pressed too hard, as though permanence could be achieved through insistence. I wrote in spaces that did not belong to me. I wrote as though someone, somewhere, might one day read and decide I was worth keeping.

“What do you want to be?”

The question arrived dressed as possibility.

“I want to write stories, ones that refuse to stay confined to ink.”

For a moment, I was welcomed. I remember their eyes, how they rested on me, not unkindly, but not completely either. There was a pause, a calculation, a quiet sorting of what could remain and what must be set aside.

“That’s nice.”

The kind of kindness that quietly closes doors.

Their gaze moved, and so did the moment.

Something in me followed it. Not loudly. Not all at once. But enough for me to feel the beginning of something I would spend years chasing.

After that, I began to study the architecture of approval. The way eyes lingered when answers were correct. The way they withdrew politely, almost apologetically, when they were not. Love, I realised, did not vanish. It migrated. So I learned to migrate with it.

“Medicine.”

The word was austere, deliberate, unembellished. It did not require belief, only acceptance.

“You would fit.”

“You are smart.”

“It suits you.”

Their eyes did not leave me this time. They anchored, and for a brief, intoxicating moment, I felt it. Not love, but something that resembled it so closely it felt cruel to tell the difference.

So I remained there, inside that reflection.

The notebook did not disappear. It deteriorated. Neglected, it succumbed to a quiet erosion, the slow unravelling of something once essential. The pages curled inward, as though attempting to protect what little remained. Ink thinned into suggestion, as though even my words had learned how to disappear.

I stopped finishing things. Then I stopped beginning them. The stories were not abandoned. They were released.

I told myself it was growth. That excess must be refined. That longing must be disciplined. That the world does not reward those who insist on being heard, it rewards those who learn when not to speak. And I had always wanted to be rewarded.

“OBGYN,” someone suggested, almost absently. “Women prefer women doctors.”

Their eyes found me again. Steady. Certain.

It made sense. It always did.

Years passed, and I learned how to welcome beginnings.

New life does not arrive triumphantly. It arrives trembling. A fragile insistence, a soft rupture of existence into a world that has already prepared expectations in its name. I take them into my hands, small and unfinished, still deciding whether to belong. I coax their first cry into existence, and place them gently into arms that have already decided everything for them.

Names. Futures. Worth. All spoken before their first cry settles.

The mothers weep. Not always from pain. Sometimes from relief. Sometimes from something quieter, something that lingers in their eyes long after the room empties, something I recognise but do not name. A silent understanding of what has been given, and what will be taken.

I watch the way they look at their children. Carefully. Lovingly. Decisively. I wonder, sometimes, if the child feels it, that subtle shaping, that invisible narrowing of possibility, that gentle, irreversible choosing.

I hand them over anyway. Of course I do.

That is my role.

I deliver beginnings, while carrying the quiet remains of endings I never allowed to exist.

“You did it. It suits you. We are proud.”

The words arrive exactly as they were meant to. They rest on me like something earned. Like something final.

Later, I find the notebook again. It is lighter now. Almost hollow. The pages resist when I open them, as though they have forgotten the gesture of being read. Dust lifts in quiet spirals, dissolving before it can settle again. Most of it is unfinished. Or worse, empty.

There is one page. A single line pressed deep enough to scar the paper beneath it.

She becomes what they needed her to be.

I wait, as though the rest might return, as though the ending had only stepped away briefly.

It does not.

I try to remember what came after, whether she was meant to be happy, whether she was meant to regret it, whether she was meant to notice.

I cannot.

Now, when people ask, I answer without hesitation.

“I am an OBGYN.”

Their eyes remain. They always do. And for a moment, everything holds. Until I realise, with a clarity that feels almost merciful, that I was never meant to write stories, only to place them into a world that will decide their endings for them.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the diverse voices of writers worldwide. This prestigious event provides a platform for poets and storytellers to share their unique perspectives and creative talents. Participants from various countries contribute to a rich tapestry of narratives, enhancing the global literary landscape. The competition serves as an inspiring forum for emerging and established writers to connect with audiences and explore the art of storytelling.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Eithar Allaeldin Elmamoun for sharing "The Ending Was Never Mine" with us. Your contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches our understanding of identity and purpose. Thank you for inviting readers to reflect on the stories we create and the roles we embrace. We look forward to witnessing your continued journey in the world of literature.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.