He Was a Storm, I Was a Match

I should’ve known from the moment I met him.

The way he walked into the room like the wind followed him.

The way his eyes held lightning behind the silence.

He was everything I wasn’t. Loud when I was quiet. Wild when I was safe. Fire when I was ash.

But there was something about his chaos that made my bones lean in. Something about the storm in his eyes that made me want to stand in the rain, arms wide open, begging to be struck.

His name was Kade.

He came into my life like a flood, no warning, no mercy.

I was the girl who kept her books stacked neatly and her emotions stacked even tighter. My world was safe, predictable—maybe even dull. I thought safety was love. He proved me wrong.

Our first conversation wasn’t romantic—it was war.

“You’re not like them,” he said, leaning on the edge of my desk in the library.

“And you think that’s a compliment?” I fired back.

He grinned, and in that grin I saw the sky split open. “No. It’s a warning.”

Kade didn’t believe in rules. He ran red lights for fun. Laughed at consequences. Danced in places where music didn’t even exist. He smoked secrets and drank danger.

And somehow, I followed.

Every late-night call from him felt like a dare.

Every glance like a challenge.

And I—God help me—I loved the way he made the world feel bigger than my fears.

But storms don’t love you back. They consume.

The first time he broke me wasn’t even loud. It was a quiet ignoring. A shift in his eyes. A phone call missed.

The second time, he came back with a scar on his cheek and a lie in his mouth. I believed both.

You see, matches don’t burn slow—they flare. They light up fast, bright, beautiful, and then… gone.

That’s what loving Kade felt like.

One night, we stood on the rooftop of an old building. He looked out over the city like it owed him something.

“I’m not made for this,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“Forever.”

But I was already too far in.

You don’t stop loving a storm because it’s dangerous.

You try to dance with it.

I tried to fix him. I thought if I was soft enough, calm enough, loving enough, I could tame the hurricane inside him.

But storms don’t want peace.

They want wreckage.

So I stayed. Longer than I should’ve.

Through every broken promise, every silent apology, every moment he said nothing but his hands begged me to stay.

And I did. Until I was ash.

The end didn’t come with screams. It came with silence.

A morning text that never came.

A final voicemail that said nothing but wind in the background.

It felt like drowning. But the ocean was already gone.

People ask why I stayed.

Why I let him tear through me like a wildfire.

And I smile, because they’ll never understand.

You don’t choose storms.

They choose you.

And sometimes, the fire is so beautiful, you forget it’s killing you.

But here's the thing about matches:

They only burn once.

And I did.

Now, I light my own candles.

I write my own storms.

And if someone ever walks in with that same wildfire grin and thunder in their voice, I’ll remember:

He was a storm, I was a match—

but I’m not burnable anymore.