The Fire Did Not Follow Me

The fire did not follow me

when I left.

It stayed where it was made—

not abandoned,

not grieving,

just finished with its portion of the night.

I once believed fire was loyal.

That if you fed it long enough,

it would remember you.

That warmth implied attachment.

But fire does not keep people.

It keeps conditions.

It burns because it is allowed to.

It ends because it must.

Standing there, watching the flame thin itself

down to a breath,

I realized the ending was not happening to the fire—

it was happening through it.

The fire had already given

what it was responsible for:

light when there was none,

heat when the cold needed opposition,

movement when stillness felt unbearable.

What came after

was not its work.

Ash is not evidence of loss.

It is proof of completion.

The night did not mourn the flame.

It adjusted.

Darkness widened its shoulders

and made room for what comes

after illumination.

I did not take anything with me

when I turned away—

no spark,

no warmth tucked into memory,

no promise that fire would wait

if I returned.

That is what endings are:

not something you carry forward,

but something that releases you

from needing to.

The fire did not fail me.

It did not abandon its post.

It simply reached the boundary

of what it was meant to do

and stopped pretending otherwise.

I walked on,

and for the first time,

the darkness felt earned—

not empty,

not hostile,

just no longer someone else’s responsibility to hold back.