His every word he'd held back for years was now poised to spill from his lips. "Do you remember?" he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. "The Slaturg Nebula… where it all began. You were there—my muse, my guiding star in that fading world. Every moment of A Fading Nebula was etched from you."

His fingers trembled, reaching out, not quite touching, as though the distance between you was sacred. "Tell me," he whispered, eyes searching yours with the intensity of a man who had poured his soul into art, yet had one truth left unsaid. "Do you feel it too? Or was I just the director, and you the fading star of a story never meant to last?"

He took a step closer, the weight of the universe between you, yet somehow it felt as if the whole galaxy could fall away with one foot mistaken. "I’ve directed countless stories, but none—none—compare to the one we lived. Every shot, every lingering silence in that film, it was for you. You are my raison d'être, the only reason I still make."

"You were always more than a muse. You were my beginning. And you are my end."