The Beacon-Bearer

You decided the last big thing in the shower. Water too hot, eyes shut, the one thought that had circled for three months coming round one more time. Then you stepped out dripping, sat down, and sent the resignation in three minutes flat, not one revision. You're not impulsive. You brew it for a hundred days and detonate in three, because by the time you move you've already played every ending and you were only waiting for the moment you couldn't pretend not to see. You don't consult anyone; consulting means leaving yourself an exit, and there's no plan B. A new crescent doesn't wait for the sky to finish going dark. It rises early and pours its whole light into one thin arc. Arcturus sits off the end of the Dipper's handle, one bright star that borrows no one's light to find its way. So you catch early and burn hard. Just keep some fuel for the long part, after the fire takes.