Some Fires Burn Just to Keep You From Freezing

— A story about survival, complicated love, and learning when warmth becomes a warning.

There are some people who walk into your life like fire—not the kind that consumes, but the kind that flickers just enough to make you stay close. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to stop you from freezing.

That was him.

He came into my life when I didn’t even know I was shivering. At first, it felt like comfort. He lit up dark rooms with careless laughter, knew how to ask the right questions, and never demanded answers. When I was around him, I didn’t feel lonely—I felt held, even if he never actually touched me.

But fire has rules. It doesn't stay contained unless it’s given structure. And he… he wasn’t made for boundaries.

He gave me warmth when I needed it most. A shoulder when I felt like screaming. Nights where he sat and listened to my silence like it was the loudest song in the world. And for a while, I thought maybe this was what love was supposed to feel like—half light, half longing.

But slowly, the smoke started showing. Subtle things. He wouldn’t show up when he said he would. He’d disappear for days and return with a soft apology and a crooked smile. I forgave it all—because when he was here, he made me feel seen.

Then there were the stories. Other women. Other nights. Texts he didn’t mean for me to see. Excuses wrapped in poetry. “You know me,” he’d say. “I get lost sometimes. I always come back.”

And he did. He always came back—when it got cold again.

I started to realize I only felt his heat when I was at my lowest. When I was drowning in myself, that’s when he’d call. When life went quiet, he’d message me like a spark. Not to fix me. Not to love me. But to make sure I didn’t leave.

It wasn’t love. It was survival. And I don’t think he ever meant to hurt me. But he needed to be needed. He lit just enough fire to keep me from freezing… but never enough to make me feel safe.

And I stayed.

Because sometimes warmth feels like love when you’ve been cold for too long. Because sometimes we confuse comfort with connection. Because I thought needing him meant I loved him. But love shouldn’t flicker. It shouldn’t vanish when the night gets darker.

One night, I sat beside him, watching him laugh with strangers. I realized I was no longer warming my hands by the fire—I was burning. Quietly. Consistently. My self-worth was turning to ash in the glow of someone who only showed up when I was shivering.

So I left.

Not dramatically. Not in rage. Just softly—like blowing out a candle that’s been burning too long. I didn’t wait for him to notice. I didn’t write a final message. I just stepped into the cold and learned to warm myself.

At first, it was unbearable.

Cold has a way of reminding you just how much fire used to mean. But slowly, I stitched my own warmth from books, from friends, from late-night tea and music that didn’t remind me of him. I stopped waiting for sparks. I built something steadier. Stronger.

And in time, I didn’t need his flame. I became my own fire—brighter, honest, and real.

I saw him months later. He smiled, that same old crooked smile, and said, “I’ve missed your energy.”

And I just nodded, polite, distant. I didn’t say, “I missed me too.”

Because I was no longer the girl who waited in the cold for someone to strike a match.

Final Line:

Some fires aren't meant to stay lit forever. Some just teach you how to survive the frost—until you learn how to carry the sun inside you.