The Weight of Maybe

There is a girl who sees too much.

Not in the way oracles usually do—those proud-eyed prophets who stand tall on mountaintops, declaring the future like thunder. No, Syla’s curse is quieter. More suffocating.

She sees every future.

Every possibility.

Every maybe.

The first time it happened, she was six, standing in front of a bakery shelf deciding between a honey bun and a blackberry tart.

The moment her fingers reached out, her mind cracked open.

One version of her choked on the seeds.

One version spilled jam on her tunic and got mocked.

One version met a stranger who would become her greatest love.

One version was poisoned.

Hundreds of lives. Dozens of deaths. Thousands of regrets. All from a single pastry.

She left the bakery in tears.

Since then, choice has been her enemy. And choice is everywhere.

By seventeen, Syla lived like a ghost.

She spoke little. Ate what was given. Walked where she was led. Even blinking became an exercise in restraint—what if one blink let in a vision she couldn't unsee?

The villagers called her “The Stilled Girl.” Some pitied her. Some feared her.

But one day, an old woman came to her hut with a cracked map and eyes that shimmered like candlelight.

“You're drowning in the sea of Maybe,” she said. “But there is a place. A river. It has only one path. The River of One.”

“That’s not real,” Syla whispered.

“Neither is sanity, when you've seen too much.”

And just like that, Syla was given a different kind of choice. One that felt heavier, yet oddly clear:

Stay still, or seek stillness.

Her journey was long. The world outside her quiet village buzzed with more choices than she’d ever known. The road forked endlessly. Each decision was a storm of visions.

Left, and she'd meet a beggar who would steal from her.

Right, and she'd save a lost child from wolves.

Forward, and she'd fall into a ravine.

Backward, and she'd starve.

So, she did the only thing she could.

She closed her eyes.

She began to walk by feel. By instinct. By surrender. The visions still came, but she didn't let them speak so loud. They were background noise. Flickers. Static.

At last, at the edge of the known lands, she came to the place.

It wasn't a river as much as a thread of silver — thin, glowing, humming softly in the air. It cut through the earth like a whisper, and the land around it was quiet. Utterly quiet.

Syla stepped to its edge.

The moment her foot touched the current, her mind emptied.

All the futures vanished. All the noise stopped. No possibilities. No warnings. No regrets.

Only now.

She wept.

Not from fear, or sorrow — but from the absence of them. For the first time in her life, the world didn’t pull her in a thousand directions. The river flowed forward. That was all.

They say she lives there now.

Some travelers who lose their way claim to see a quiet girl standing knee-deep in a stream of light, her face calm, her eyes closed, her heart finally still.

She does not speak. She does not choose.

She only moves where the river takes her.

And for someone who once bore the unbearable weight of maybe — that is enough.

💬 Thanks for reading!

If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Have you ever felt paralyzed by choices? What would you do if you could only choose once?

Your feedback means a lot — and if you enjoyed it, feel free to share with someone who overthinks like Syla 💭✨