Page 53 of Light My Fire Three Times
And maybe that shouldn’t surprise me, because I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.
I thought I had control at work, that I knew what I was doing, that my choices were leading somewhere. Then the fire proved how fragile everything really is.
I could keep my distance from Jesse, maintain my boundaries, and keep them neat and unblurred. But I’ve already crossed more lines than I can count. And now Karl.
Maybe this is the pattern. I see what I want to see, not what’s there.
The sound of the front door shutting jolts me back to the present—heavy boots, quick steps, then silence. One of them leaves, the other stays. I don’t know which, and I don’t want to.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That Karl did what anyone decent would’ve done. Offered me a roof when I needed one, made me laugh when I couldn’t find it myself, and it’s on me for reading too much into it.
But knowing that doesn’t stop the sting. It doesn’t stop the hollow feeling in my chest, the reminder that once again, I’ve mistaken kindness for care.
And this time, I don’t know how to come back from it.
The ceiling blurs above me. At first, I think it’s just because I’m tired, because the weight pressing down on my chest ismaking it hard to breathe. But then I blink, and the blur slips hot and wet into the corners of my vision.
I turn my face into the pillow, as if hiding will make it stop. As if muffling the sound will make the ache go away.
But it doesn’t. It grows.
Every word of Karl’s echoes in my skull until it’s too much to hold back, until the dam I’ve been patching with brittle hope finally cracks. The tears come fast, harsh, spilling over like they’ve been waiting for permission.
I curl in on myself, knees pulled tight, fists pressed to my chest like I can keep myself from falling apart if I hold on hard enough. But it’s no use. The sob breaks free, jagged and raw, and then another, and another, until I’m shaking with it.
It’s not just Karl. It’s not just the sting of knowing I’ve been imagining something that was never there. It’s everything. The fire. The hollowed-out shell of my apartment. The way Jesse looks at me is like I’m both his salvation and his curse. The endless pressure at work, every choice I’ve made that feels wrong in hindsight.
It all crashes down at once.
I cry for the life I thought I was building, for the stability I convinced myself I had. I cry because I don’t know who I am when it’s stripped away. After all, I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing or why I keep running in circles that always end with me alone.
My throat burns, my chest heaves, and still the tears don’t stop.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t try to.
I let it happen.
Because pretending I’m fine hasn’t saved me. Pretending I’m strong hasn’t rebuilt anything. And maybe letting myself fall apart is the only honest thing I’ve done in weeks.
By the time the tears run dry, my head is pounding, and my pillow is damp. I feel hollow, scraped clean, like there’s nothing left in me but the throb behind my eyes.
And maybe that’s what I need. To be empty for a while. To stop clinging to whatever story I’ve been telling myself about Karl, about Jesse, about my job, about… everything.
What I do know is this: I can’t sit here waiting to be saved.
I push myself up, drag a sleeve across my face, and take a long breath. I need to get my apartment sorted. If nothing else, I can control that much.
Notebook in hand, I step onto Main Street and nearly get flattened by a blur of beige and squealing.
“Pickle!”
The French bulldog launches himself at my ankles, snorting and wheezing like a tiny steam engine.
Behind him, Ivy jogs up, Mia strapped in a carrier on her chest, Max and Lily in the pram, chanting “Pickle, Pickle, Pickle!” in perfect sing-song chaos as Penny rolls her eyes.
“Sorry!” she says, a little breathless. “He’s on his third escape today.”
I crouch to scoop the dog up, though he’s heavier than he looks.
