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Into each generation, a slayer is born. One girl in all the world, a chosen one. One born with the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.
It's a statement Buffy has heard dozens of times, its familiar cadence as steeped into her bones as the strength that it speaks of. But this whole "chosen one" business feels like nonsense now. Her preternatural strength pales in comparison to Tara's: carefully hidden, but overpowering, warm, authentic.
Who else would stand up to a god, protect Dawn's secret even though she knew she would likely die? No one, Buffy supposes. Only the strongest woman she knows. It feels foolish to call Tara's strength natural when it's clearly carefully honed—a way of surviving her family, probably. But compared to Buffy's prescribed abilities, Tara's strength is nonetheless beautiful.
There's no other word for it. Buffy doesn't pretend to understand magic, but she's sure that Tara's soul glows. What other explanation is there for the warmth she feels when Tara is around? And yet, as Tara packs up her boxes, it feels like that warmth is being packed away into them, leaving Buffy frozen in place. How is it that, even now, her strength shines through? Her face is firm, resolute, but without the barest hint of malice.
If she had been in Tara's place—betrayed by her partner so deeply—Buffy doesn't think she could stop herself from drowning in anger. No—she knows she couldn't. Hell, she's angry even now. What use are her slayer powers if she can't protect those closest to her?
Buffy just watches her walk away, helplessly rooted in place. How could she ask Tara to stay, when the person who hurt her so much still lives in Buffy's house?