Nedim placed a bowl of popcorn between us and asked me not to reveal the culprit. I had no intention of doing so. I had already read the plot description, ending, and three reviews, but considered my knowledge private. I was someone who looked at a novel's final page before its first. He claimed that would destroy his enjoyment. On our fifth date, the difference seemed small enough to be charming.

Halfway through the film he asked whether the dog survived. I said it did. He exhaled gratefully, and I teased him about wanting a little certainty after all. He leaned his head on a cushion and admitted he made an exception for the dog. For everything else he liked not knowing. I watched his face lit by the screen and wished I could sit beside somebody so simply without needing to check where the story was going.

When the film ended, Nedim suggested a weekend together the following month. Instead of joy I felt a procession of questions: would we still be together, what if we argued, should we book separate rooms? I began saying them in order. He assumed I did not really want to go. He rose to clear the bowl, and from his shoulders I saw the space I was beginning to love closing down.

I said I wanted to, but promises I could not yet verify frightened me. My previous relationship had ended suddenly, at least for me, and since then I sought endings even where none existed. Nedim sat down. He did not promise never to hurt me. He said he could tell me what he wanted now and talk if that changed. His answer did not remove the fear, but neither did it use the fear to win me over.

We agreed on a weekend whose plans we could change, without a concealed trial of living together. When we went, it rained, the room was smaller than imagined, and I forgot my charger. We did not turn these things into signs the relationship had no future. We argued about an open window, reconciled over soup, and returned exhausted. It was a good weekend, although none of my prepared versions had predicted it.

I still read book endings. Nedim does not cover them with his hand or claim he must teach me how to live. When we watch films together, I ask whether he wants a warning if anything happens to the dog. Usually he does. Our story has no final page I can secretly open. Sometimes that unsettles me. Sometimes, while sharing popcorn, I think it is lovely not to know what our next conversation will be.