Willow is the sun.
Tara knows this when Willow wakes up in the morning, her brightly orange hair around her brightly smiling face.
And when Willow jokes around with Xander or Buffy or Dawn, Tara, too, feels warmed by her rays.
When Willow blushes and giggles, and when she smirks and skips around, Tara is standing in her sunshine.
And when Willow holds on tightly to Tara in the night, Tara feels like she’s burning. And she doesn’t mind.
So when Tara leaves, she thinks she may actually begin to understand vampires, just a bit. Tara knows she has become a creature of the night, ever hungering for a taste, a touch, something to make her feel.
And every day, she watches Willow grow brighter.
So Tara embraces her status as “the mature one” - counsels Buffy (and oh God, does she feel for Buffy right now), counsels Anya (and oh, how she feels for Anya, as well - though her friend’s situation makes her feel horribly guilty. Is that how devastated she made Willow?), and tries to put more work into her witchcraft - but finds she can do no spells without crying. She wonders if she made entirely the wrong decision.
And when she returns to Willow, she knows she did. They are more intimate than ever; just like the sun and the moon, superficially acting as opposites, privately fighting for dominance, but desperately needing each other.
And again, Tara finds herself in Willow’s light. Dawn’s giddiness at their reunion only intensifies Tara’s sheer, untainted happiness.
And the last thing she remembers thinking is; “don’t let Willow’s light disappear.”