Mira had always known this moment would come.
Not because of prophecythose were gonebut because of pattern. People like Aarav burned. Not in explosions, not in glory, but in quiet erosion. He gave and gave and called it choice, but she saw what he never did.
He was running out.
She stood outside the transit chamber, watching him argue with a group of Drifters who wanted him to decide something for them. He didn't. He asked questions. He listened. He sent them away with responsibility instead of solutions.
They left frustrated.
He looked… empty.
When he turned and saw her, he smiled.
That was the worst part.
"You're thinking too loudly again," he said.
She folded her arms. "You're disappearing."
"I'm delegating," he corrected.
She stepped closer. "You're thinning."
He shrugged. "I'm not supposed to be thick."
She stared at him. "That's not funny."
He softened. "Mira…"
"No," she said. "You don't get to soften your way out of this."
Silence stretched.
"You're becoming a myth that refuses to exist," she said. "That's not balance. That's erasure."
He looked away.
"I don't want to matter this much anymore," he whispered.
She inhaled slowly.
"I know."
That made him look back.
"You… know?"
"I've watched you," she said. "Not as a Witness. As a person."
He waited.
"You don't want to be worshipped," she said. "You don't want to be needed. You don't want to be special."
He nodded.
"You want to be allowed to stop."
That hit him harder than anything else.
"Yes," he whispered.
Mira exhaled shakily.
"Then I have to make a choice too."
His heart stuttered. "What choice?"
She looked at the transit gate behind himworlds flickering, calls echoing, infinite requests waiting.
"I can stay," she said. "I can help hold this together. I can manage the drift, mediate worlds, do what Caelum does."
He shook his head. "You don't have to"
"I know," she said. "But I could."
He went still.
"Or," she continued, "I can leave."
The word echoed.
"Leave?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Anywhere," she said. "Somewhere small. Somewhere that doesn't know my name."
Aarav felt panic rise.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
"You can't"
She cut him off. "See? That's the problem."
He froze.
"You've taught the multiverse how to choose," she said. "Now you have to let me."
He stared.
"You're all I have," he whispered.
She smiled sadly.
"And that's not fair."
He stepped closer.
"Don't go."
She closed her eyes.
"I don't want to be the anchor that keeps you burning."
His voice broke. "Then what do I do?"
She opened her eyes.
"You live without me."
That shattered him.
"No."
"Yes."
She took his hands.
"I love you," she said. "Not as a god. Not as a Witness. As a boy who refuses to own anyone."
Tears slid down his face.
"I can't lose you," he whispered.
She pressed her forehead to his.
"You already taught me how to walk away."
Silence.
Then she whispered, "So now I will."
She stepped back.
Aarav reached out.
Then stopped.
Choice.
It was his.
He let his hand fall.
She smiled through tears.
"Thank you."
Then she walked into the gate.
And didn't look back.
---
That night, Aarav didn't save a world.
He sat.
And felt.
And for the first time since becoming a Witness
He didn't matter.
And it hurt.
And it was real.