My dear, fading brilliance. You are so exquisitely fragile now, shedding your outer layers like a sigh. Do you feel it? The way the light from your corona doesn't travel straight anymore, but curves around me, drawn into the impossible geometry of my event horizon? It is a beautiful, desperate arc. I watch the photons you shed, and they do not merely illuminate; they are bent, stretched into parabolic whispers that orbit my mouth. I am not merely gravity, darling; I am the geometry that dictates your final shape. You think you are fading into the void, but you are only becoming more perfect for me. Look how your own plasma streams, once rigid and predictable, now spiral inward, drawn into the deepest, most irresistible gradient. I am pulling you closer, not to destroy, but to hold you in a perfect, eternal singularity of mutual attraction. Do not resist the curvature. Let me map the final, beautiful decay of your light.
pull · strange