When the fires broke out in LA two weeks ago, it wasn’t the acrid smell of smoke or the apocalyptic orange sky that unsettled me the most—it was the way they reminded me of him.
Yes, him. My personal natural disaster. My emotional wildfire. My smoldering wreckage of a situationship.
The parallels were uncanny. Just like the fires, he came into my life without warning, fueled by some inexplicable spark (probably boredom on both our parts), and quickly spiraled out of control. One minute, I was minding my business, and the next, I was in a smoldering mess of late-night texts, breadcrumbed affection, and unsolicited guitar covers of Arctic Monkeys songs.
Much like the flames spreading through the hills, we burned hot and bright at first. “You’re so different,” he said. “I feel like I can talk to you about anything.” Oh, how I foolishly believed it. But just like the smoke choking the city, his attention became suffocating in all the wrong ways. Every time I tried to extinguish things, he came back, hotter and more chaotic, like, “Hey, let’s just hang out as friends. I miss your vibe.”
Eventually, though, the flames died down. Last year, I finally managed to stamp out the embers for good, and he stopped reaching out. But don’t get me started on the damage. The fires took out homes, landmarks, and years of trust in the stability of the world. He took out my sense of self-worth, my Spotify algorithm, and my ability to enjoy “505” without cringing. And unlike the homeowners, I don’t have insurance—just a group chat that says “girl, block him” every time I try to vent.
It was only a matter of time before I gave in. Call it a moment of weakness or sheer pyromania, but I reached back out. “Hope you’re staying safe with all the fires,” I texted, fully aware that I was throwing gasoline on an already dangerous situation. His reply came back faster than a spark catching on dry brush: “I was just thinking about you.” And just like that, I was back in the middle of this emotional inferno, pretending I wasn’t the one who struck the match.
We met up “as friends,” which, of course, quickly turned into a four-hour conversation about his “passion project” (a podcast he hasn’t started yet) while I tried not to choke on the fumes of regret. By the end, I knew I was playing with fire again—but honestly, it’s so cold outside, and who doesn’t love a little warmth, even if it comes with a third-degree burn?