They come—
not just for love,
not just for touch—
but carrying something ancient
and heavy:
a silent moral weight.

It hums beneath their words,
moves in their longing,
calls her in
like a ritual already underway.

She has played the part.
Not once.
Many times.
With precision.
With force.
With the calm of one
who knows the blade
and the silence that follows.

Yes—
she has beheaded.
Not with cruelty,
but with a kind of sacred duty
she didn’t yet understand

She knows what it means
to be summoned into their story,
to hold the weight of a man’s shame
as if it were hers to carry,
to cut—cleanly, completely—
as if some balance
depended on it.

It is part of her history.
It lives in her body.
It has given her power.

But now,
she sees the pattern.
She feels the familiar pull—
and does not follow it.
She will not behead this time.
Not because she can’t.
She can.
She knows how.

But because something in her says:
Not now.
Because she no longer confuses
that moment of severing
with strength.
Because what once felt like truth
now feels like a question
she no longer needs to answer.

This time,
she chooses to remain whole—
and steps back,
leaving him to face
what is his,
His weight is his to carry,
his fate is his to choose.

She walks away,
not powerless—
but free.