Most love stories tie their endings with neat bows—reconciliations, weddings, or heroic last-minute confessions. But Kayla Gilheany’s If I Could Turn Back Time refuses to offer Elaine (or readers) that comfort. In this fifth installment, we explore why the book’s ambiguous ending isn’t a cop-out, but its most psychologically honest choice. Sometimes growth doesn’t mean getting answers—it means learning to live without them.
Elaine’s story ends with a pen in her hand and a blank page—not a wedding ring or dramatic reunion. This deliberate lack of closure mirrors real heartbreak, where we rarely receive the explanations we crave. Kayla resists the temptation to villainize Jack or redeem Elaine through a grand gesture. Instead, she leaves us with something more radical: uncertainty. The witch’s final appearance doesn’t provide a tidy moral; she simply reminds Elaine that “the story isn’t about him anymore.” For readers conditioned to expect emotional payoff, this can frustrate—but that’s exactly why it resonates.
The book’s brilliance lies in what it doesn’t show. We never see Jack’s reaction to Elaine’s kiss during the time-travel sequence, nor do we get proof that he was always destined to choose another. These gaps force readers to sit with the same questions Elaine faces: Was it me? Was it her? Was it just bad timing? By denying us answers, Kayla replicates the maddening, universal experience of loving someone who can’t—or won’t—explain themselves. The absence becomes its own presence, echoing long after the last page.
Critics might call the ending unsatisfying, but that’s the point. Elaine’s journey isn’t about “winning” love—it’s about outgrowing the need to. The final scene, where she writes “How will I learn to live without him? Just wait and see,” isn’t defeat; it’s defiance. Kayla’s message is clear: Some losses aren’t puzzles to solve, but weights to shed. Unlike traditional narratives where closure equals healing, If I Could Turn Back Time suggests that healing is the closure—messy, nonlinear, and entirely on your own terms.
The book’s structure reinforces this. Elaine’s magical do-overs mimic how we mentally replay past moments, searching for alternate outcomes. But the witch’s interventions grow increasingly futile, mirroring how obsessive “why”s eventually exhaust us. By the end, even magic can’t rewrite reality—and that’s when Elaine finally picks up her pen. Kayla’s daring choice to leave Jack’s motivations unexplored makes space for a harder truth: You don’t need his reasons to reclaim your life. For anyone stuck in analysis paralysis post-heartbreak, this ending isn’t evasion—it’s emancipation.
If I Could Turn Back Time doesn’t promise happy endings—it promises honest ones. Next week, we’ll examine how Kayla’s background as a poet shapes the book’s visceral prose. Until then, consider: What if unanswered questions aren’t obstacles to moving on, but proof that you already are?
