quit feeding the flame

there's a quiet power in letting yourself surrender to fate

The flame’s probably out.

Hard to tell.

I think I’ve been standing here with a lighter and a can of gasoline,

refusing to notice the wood’s already soaked through.

It’s been three days since I sent you a message.

Nothing tragic.

Just a polite suggestion:

“Should we try for next week?”

Delivered.

Ignored.

A classic.

I’m surprisingly calm about it.

Maybe because disappointment has become my most consistent friend —

the one I keep bumping into because of how the circumstances always seem to arrange themselves.

I liked our beginning.

The way you nervously talked about nothing just to keep me around.

I found it charming.

Endearing, even.

You said we should do it again — the lake, the music.

I agreed.

I even added a smiley face.

And then you disappeared.

Not metaphorically.

You literally deleted yourself from the app.

For a second, my mind wandered —

spinning futures that had no right to exist.

I’m supposed to be nonchalant.

No expectations.

But I’m the kind of person who notices tiny things and thinks they mean something.

So I sent you a message.

You replied right away —

reassuring, but vague.

“Maybe next week.”

A vague promise.

The most dangerous kind.

Deadlier than a dagger.

Quieter than a nuclear bomb.

I asked again.

One last time.

“Next Saturday?”

Nothing.

Now I’m left feeling like I twisted your arm into something.

But it wasn’t my idea to begin with.

You were the one who brought it up.

All I did was believe you.

It’s fine.

Really.

I don’t think I’ll hear from you again.

And if by some miracle I do,

maybe I’ll be different by then.

Maybe I’ll be harder to reach.

Maybe I won’t want to answer.

Either way, this is where it ends.

Not with a bang.

Not even with a whimper.

Just me, realizing:

Some connections don’t die.

They just quietly walk away, hoping you won’t notice.

[cut to black]