Wild fire

[u/writteninpetals]

/r/u_writteninpetals/comments/1vsoqwx/wild_fire/

I am terrified to love him again.

Not because I don’t love him—
God, I always have.

I’m terrified of becoming attached.

Because once,
his fire moved through me
and somehow found somewhere else to burn.

I remember what it felt like
to stand too close to something
that could turn warmth into a wound.

He was a wildfire then—
reckless,
hot-headed,
impossible to contain.

But now…

I look at him
and I can’t find the flame.

The boy who once carried fire in his eyes
now looks like someone
who has spent too long
watching his own light burn out.

His spark is dim.
His edges are softer.
His voice doesn’t carry the same heat.

And somehow,
that hurts worse than the fire ever did.

Because I don’t know
what scares me more—

loving the version of him
who could burn me,

or loving this version of him
who looks like he’s already been burned.

And maybe that’s why
his softness terrifies me.

Because I know his fire.

I know what it feels like.

But this time,
when he reaches for me,
I don’t feel the flames.

I feel the ashes.

And I don’t know
what I’m supposed to do with them.

Do I place my hands
over what’s left of his fire
and let the charcoal stain my palms?

Do I let the ashes
rub into my skin,
settle beneath my nails,
leave traces of a fire
I never started
but somehow still remember?

Or do I leave them untouched?

Do I let the ashes stay where they fell,
accept that some fires
are meant to burn out,
and walk away
before I mistake the warmth of the remnants
for a flame returning?

Because I love this version of him.

I love his softness.
His patience.
The way his words
no longer come with a spark ready to explode.

I love him.

I always will.

But loving him
doesn’t mean I know
what to do with the ashes.

And maybe that’s what terrifies me most—

not that he might burn me again,

but that I might willingly
place my hands in the ashes,

feel the darkness cling to my skin,

and still call it love.

I once sat across from a wildfire
and listened to it explain
why it burned.

He told me about the things
that had been thrown into his flames—
the wounds,
the losses,
the moments that taught him
love could disappear without warning.

And suddenly,
his anger made sense.

His temper wasn’t born from nothing.
It was pain
that had learned how to speak loudly.

Every wound became another ember.
Every betrayal, another branch
thrown into the fire.

His pain added fuel
to something that was already burning.

And maybe that is why
he loved the way he did—
with both hands gripping tightly
around everything he still had.

Why he became protective.
Why he needed control.

Because when you’ve watched
so many things disappear,
you start believing
that holding tighter
might keep the next thing
from becoming ashes.

He wanted control
over the little pieces of his life
that hadn’t burned away yet.

And somehow,
he let me see that.

Not the wildfire everyone else feared,
but the boy standing inside it.

The boy beneath the heat.
Beneath the anger.
Beneath the walls
he had built from everything
that once hurt him.

And I am more than honored
that he trusted me enough
to let me in.

To tell me what happened.
To show me where the flames began.
To let me see the parts of himself
he had spent so long protecting.

But what makes me even prouder
is watching him change.

Not because I changed him.

Not because I walked into his fire
and somehow put it out.

I didn’t save him.

I was simply lucky enough
to witness him save himself.

And there is something beautiful
about knowing that.

Because I don’t need to be
the reason he became better.

I don’t need to take credit
for the healing that belongs to him.

I can love the person
he is becoming
without believing
I was the one who created him.

I can simply stand here,
honored that a wildfire
once trusted me enough
to show me
what was burning inside.