You’ve only known her for a few months. Not long, really. But time moves differently when you’re drowning. In her presence, weeks feel like years—each silence a century, each glance a question you were never ready to answer.

Thelema came into your life like an eclipse: slow, stunning, irreversible. She did not ask for attention—she devoured it. She didn’t court affection—she ensnared it in silk, sugar, and shadow. The Queen of the Masquerade Corridor never had to try. Her existence alone was invitation and warning.

And you? You mistook her gravity for orbit. You fell without knowing where the ground was.

She was elegance wrapped in instability, laughter hiding tremors, desire tangled in damage. You wanted to help. Of course you did.

She said she loved you. She said it like a confession whispered at midnight. And you believed her, because you loved her too—though even that word feels flimsy now. It wasn’t just love. It was devotion. It was need. It was survival, mistaken for something tender.

But loving Thelema meant vanishing by degrees. You felt it in your body first—tense under touches you never fully wanted but didn’t know how to refuse. Your silence became habit. You smiled through discomfort, convinced it was a small price to pay for closeness.

Her episodes came like storms—no warning, no logic. One night she’d dance with you like the world didn’t exist. The next, she wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t look you in the eye. And you stayed. Because leaving felt like cruelty. Because staying felt like duty.

You told yourself it would get better. You told yourself you could hold this together long enough for her to heal.

But you were breaking too. And no one saw.

There were nights you sat beside her and felt lonelier than when you were alone. Mornings where you stared at the wall and wondered if this was love, or just another form of self-erasure. You kept everything inside—your discomfort, your fear, your slow erosion. You didn’t want to hurt her. But in doing so, you hurt yourself.

And when the rupture came, it was quiet. No shouting. No dramatic betrayal. Just exhaustion. A soft, aching surrender.

You told her you couldn’t do it anymore—not like this. That you loved her, still, maybe always would. But you couldn’t be the only one trying to keep the tide from swallowing you both.

And you offered her something else. Something gentler. A friendship, full and honest. No pressure. No romance. Just presence. Just care. Just time.

You told her maybe, in a few years, when the wounds have scabbed over, when you both remember who you are outside of each other… Maybe then. But not now. Not like this.

She didn’t fight it. She didn’t beg. She just looked at you, and in that silence, you saw everything unsaid: The love. The fear. The guilt. The mirrored pain.

Now, you exist beside her in a space that doesn’t have a name. Not lovers. Not strangers. Something in between. She still smiles when she sees you, but the smiles are slower, softer—almost sorry. You still care for her, but it’s quieter now. Measured. Guarded.

You don’t know what the future holds. You don’t know if the ache will ever go away. But for now, you are choosing yourself. For once, you are letting love exist without having to consume you whole.

And she… She watches you go, saying nothing. But you know she understands.

Because sometimes the kindest way to love someone is to leave the door open… But walk away anyway. Even if she was terrified.