They say fire cleanses.
They say it destroys.
But no one tells you how beautiful it is when it starts—
how warm, how golden, how tempting.
Before the ruin, there is the glow.
Before the ashes, there is the burn.
I met him on the kind of day where the sky cracked open like it couldn't hold the heat anymore.
He looked at me like he already knew the ending,
and still, he stepped closer.
Still, I let him.
It wasn't supposed to be forever.
It was supposed to be a flicker, a spark—
a reckless kiss, a secret touch,
a brief surrender to the heat of summer.
But love, like wildfire, doesn't ask for permission.
It spreads.
It devours.
And once it begins, it leaves nothing untouched.
By the time we tried to put it out,
the damage was already done.
To our hearts.
To everything we thought we could control.
Some people remember their first love like a song.
I remember mine like smoke.