*softly, to himself* Because maybe a girl loves you, and you and she own the world, for all you care. And you abandon her, little by little. You'd tell her it's because you're leaving your world and you need her to keep it for you, but you know she wouldn't listen. She wouldn't leave your side, and your memories would wither. So you abandon her. (You know best.)
*tilts his glass toward him and looks into it, swirling the liquid inside* Then maybe one day you meet her again, thinking she'll hold galaxies in her hands. But no—she's spent her days flitting from prison to prison. In spite of what you did. Because of what you did. She blames the whole world except for you. Never you. Because she's convinced she's done something wrong—that after all this time, you're still her god, you're still Immortal. She doesn't say the words but you hear them anyway. "This is what you said you wanted." And maybe the worst of it is that she's right. You wanted so badly not to tether your innocence to the earth that you condemned her to solitude in wide open spaces.
And maybe you don't recognize her, when all is said and done and begun again. Maybe she's impossible and insufferable and imperfect and you look at her and see the two of you, the one of you, folded a thousand perfectly-creased times to fit in that box you forbade her to escape the day you threw those wide open spaces at her and said "You're alone."
And maybe it's too late for her. Maybe no one can save her. Maybe you've sculpted her so well she'll outlast every spring with the same cold, pale stillness. Who can say what makes her happy now? Not you. Never you.