The decision didn't come as clarity.
It came as fatigue.
Not the kind sleep could fix, and not the kind that announced itself dramatically. It arrived quietly, in the space between thoughts, in the way effort began to outweigh intention.
I noticed it when I tried to follow a debate transcript and couldn't hold the thread.
Not because it was complex.
Because it was too much.
Marcus sat across from me, watching without interrupting.
"You're drifting," he said finally.
"I'm still here," I replied.
He shook his head. "You're present. That's not the same thing."
I wanted to argue.
I didn't have the precision to do it.
The advisory presence surfaced one last time, its tone stripped of authority, almost administrative.
[Anchor load exceeds sustainable threshold.]
[Continued exposure increases irreversible loss probability.]
"Loss of what?" I asked quietly.
It paused.
[Loss of discrimination capacity.]
The words mattered more than they should have.
Discrimination wasn't prejudice.
It wasn't judgment.
It was the ability to separate—to tell where one fear ended and another began, where responsibility shifted hands, where a decision truly originated.
Without that, everything blurred into urgency.
And urgency made terrible leaders.
"I can't afford to become that," I said.
Marcus didn't respond immediately.
"You're talking about stepping back," he said.
"Yes."
"Completely?"
"No," I replied. "Deliberately."
He leaned forward. "Say it plainly."
I took a breath.
"I won't be a public anchor anymore," I said. "No statements. No interventions. No mediation."
Marcus absorbed that.
"And the committee?"
"They'll continue," I said. "With or without me."
"And Mara?"
The name landed heavier than I expected.
"She'll keep doing what she's already doing," I said. "Only now, without me as a reference point."
Marcus studied my face.
"You know how that will look," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "Like abdication."
"Like guilt," he added.
"Yes," I agreed again.
Outside, the city moved through its new rhythms. Schedules posted. Barricades adjusted. Assemblies negotiated or dissolved.
Not oppression.
Administration.
Mara's movement—if it could even be called that yet—had taken on a different quality. Less reactive. More deliberate.
She spoke less often.
When she did, people listened.
Not because she promised anything.
Because she didn't.
"Elena," Marcus said quietly, "once you step back, there's no clean way to return."
"I know."
"And the damage?" he asked. "Does stepping back stop it?"
I closed my eyes.
"No," I said. "It slows it. Maybe stabilizes it."
He exhaled. "You're choosing yourself over the system."
"No," I corrected. "I'm choosing not to break something else trying to hold it together."
That was the difference.
The advisory presence chimed one final time.
[System acknowledgment:]
[Anchor withdrawal alters equilibrium.]
"Everything alters equilibrium," I said. "That's the point."
I drafted the notice myself.
Not a resignation.
Not an apology.
A boundary.
I will no longer act as an intermediary, advisor, or representative in public decision-making.
This is not an endorsement of any authority, nor a rejection of dissent.
It is an acknowledgment of human limits—including my own.
I read it twice.
Then once more, out loud.
It sounded smaller than everything that had come before.
That was intentional.
Marcus watched me send it.
"That's it," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
The response was immediate.
Confusion.
Speculation.
Relief.
Accusation.
The committee issued a statement within the hour.
"We respect Elena's decision to step back and reaffirm the stability of current governance mechanisms."
Smooth.
Contained.
Mara did not respond right away.
When she finally did, it wasn't public.
It was a single message.
I wish you'd stayed longer.
But I understand why you couldn't.
I stared at it for a long time.
"I didn't do this for them," I said to Marcus.
"I know," he replied.
"I didn't do it for her either."
"I know."
"I did it," I said slowly, "because I can't be the place where everything converges anymore."
Marcus nodded.
"That's how people become symbols," he said. "And symbols don't heal."
That night, something strange happened.
For the first time in weeks, the pressure eased.
Not vanished.
Muted.
The noise receded just enough for my own thoughts to feel like mine again.
But in that quiet, something else became visible.
The city—without me.
Two currents now ran clearly.
One structured, cautious, managed by committees that believed harm could be minimized through procedure.
One fragile, defiant, held together by people willing to risk visibility rather than accept preemption.
Neither was whole.
Neither was evil.
They were two answers to the same unbearable question.
Who should carry the risk of being human?
I stood at the window, watching distant lights flicker.
I had removed myself from the center.
Not because the center wasn't important—
But because no single body should have to absorb it all.
The future didn't pause.
It diverged.
And for the first time since all of this began, I understood that stepping away wasn't the end of responsibility.
It was a redistribution.
One that would outlast me.