Chapter 12: Let Him Burn

He told me once that he liked fire.

Said it in that lazy, lethal voice of his—like it wasn't a warning.

Like it wasn't a confession.

"I like the way it dances," he murmured, eyes on the lighter's flame. "It doesn't ask for permission. It just is."

At the time, I thought he was talking about chaos.

Now I know—

He was talking about me.

---

Because I didn't tiptoe into his life.

I ignited it.

And he liked the warmth at first.

The light. The thrill of being close to something wild.

He thought he could tame it. Hold it. Pocket it.

But fire doesn't stay where you put it.

It devours.

And when it's gone, it leaves ash behind.

---

He didn't see it coming.

Didn't expect the girl he cornered on a library step

to walk away like she was never his to begin with.

He thought I'd always orbit him.

That I'd come when he called.

That I'd forgive the games he never admitted to playing.

But the thing about fire?

It doesn't beg to be touched.

---

Now I hear he's restless.

Changing numbers.

Cancelling plans.

Running from his own shadow because it looks too much like mine.

His friends say he's fine.

But their voices crack when they say it.

Like they've been burned too—by the version of him I left behind.

Because I took something with me when I left.

Peace.

---

I don't wish him well.

Not entirely.

I hope the scent of me clings to every mistake he makes.

I hope the songs we once loved now taste bitter in his mouth.

I hope he finds someone better—and ruins it, because he keeps comparing her to someone who never looked back.

Let him burn.

Let him feel what I felt

when he kissed me like a promise

and left like a thief.

Let the flame that once warmed him

become the one that consumes him.

Because baby—

I was the fire.

He?

He was just kindling.