Addicted to the Flame

a love story written in Ash & Fire

The Fire That Shaped Me

Life isn’t just black and white; life is every color imaginable.

My passion? It’s passion itself. I cross continents for it. I sacrifice sleep. I give it everything — I live for passion, I breathe for it. But what happens when you realize that everything you've been living for — all-consuming and fierce — has only ever been that? Just passion?

I’m talking about what I once believed was the love of my life. Maybe it really was.

A story like no other — one fueled entirely by fire.

We met at eighteen. Young, wild, unfiltered. Our souls were restless and searching for something rare — something that tasted like truth. The kind of love most never encounter. And when they do, they run. It’s too much, too soon, too intense.

We ran, too.

Or maybe… we collided.

It started in my student house — two strangers walking into a moment that neither of us knew would define the next decade. I still remember how her eyes locked onto mine. Time stopped. My words vanished. But we didn’t need them.

We had presence. We had gravity.

We disappeared into each other like we were rewriting the rules of time. Hours stretched into galaxies. We didn’t just connect — we transcended. There was no logic, no future, no past. Just us, floating in something vast and wordless.

We had no idea what we were stepping into.

That fire — that untamed, sacred fire — would leave a mark neither of us could erase. I remember waking up beside her, wrapped in silence and warmth, smiling for three weeks straight. That’s how long we had before it unraveled.

Three weeks before she left. Out of fear.

Seven years passed. New cities, new faces, new chapters. But that kind of passion? It doesn’t let go. I carried it like a secret, like a compass.

Not because she created it — but because she was the first place I ever felt it fully, without apology.

She, on the other hand, turned away from it. Said she didn’t believe in lightning striking twice. So she stopped looking.

But I couldn’t.

That intensity, that rawness — it became my north star. Even when it hurt. Even when I was lost. I kept searching. And in doing so, I taught others to live boldly, to feel deeply.

Because once you’ve touched something that pure, you can’t un-know it. You can’t forget how it felt to dissolve in someone’s presence — to exist completely unguarded.

Then, one day, we met again.

Older. Changed. Thinking we were wiser. And the fire? It returned the second our eyes met. Like no time had passed. Like the years had only been a pause, not an ending.

We fell again — hard and fast. Got engaged. Dreamed of a wedding. Sketched out a future.

But slowly, piece by piece, it began to fall apart.

The love remained. The passion stood tall. But everything else — our communication, our health, our foundation — cracked beneath the weight of our intensity. We had built a castle in the sky and then took hammers to it, pausing only to kiss through the rubble.

It wasn’t wrong to believe in it. But maybe it was wrong to think it could last.

We loved like artists — boldly, beautifully, and blindly. And we paid the price.

That kind of love? That’s what songs are written about. What poets cry for. What painters chase in color. She always said that. And she was right.

But love like that becomes an addiction. It fills your lungs, then takes your breath. It floods your soul, then pulls you under.

Rationality begged us to stop. Logic held up every red flag. But the fire? It was louder.

Until there was nothing left.

And so the castle crumbled. And we were left standing in the wreckage — naked, raw, trembling.

Moving on from this might be the hardest thing I’ll ever do.

But I don’t regret it. Not a second of it.

Because passion like that teaches you something no calm, steady love ever could.

I live for passion. But I can no longer let it burn me alive.

The truth? My mental health shattered. My soul cracked in places I’m still learning to heal. I’m crawling back now — quietly, slowly, alone.

I've learned that I can’t keep offering myself to chaos, even when it calls itself love.

I still love her. With a depth that can’t be measured. That probably never will fade.

But I’ve met the cruel twin of passion — the one that looks like light, but leads you into the dark.

Love lifted me to the stars — but pain was always waiting in the shadows. Quiet, patient.

I was lucky to escape before it pulled me under completely.

So what have I learned?

I’m angry. Angry that something so beautiful can leave you broken. Angry that passion doesn’t come with a manual. Angry that the world gives us no guidance for what to do with love this big.

And maybe I’ll be angry for a while.

But now, I choose peace. I choose myself. Because at some point, it stops being about love — and starts being about survival.

I need me. I need to hold my own hand through the aftermath. I don’t give up easily. Not on love. Not on people.

But I’ve learned to let go when something begins to take more than it gives.

I’ll always carry that love — not with regret, but with reverence.

It was a fire too wild to contain. A force too powerful to sustain.

To you, dear reader:

Will you chase passion — or let it chase you?

If it finds you, drink it. Drink deeply. But don’t lose yourself in it. Don’t let it hollow you out. Know when it starts to take more than it gives — and have the courage to walk away.

Not every fire is meant to be contained. Some are meant to light the way for a while, then fade. And that’s okay. You can love fully and still choose yourself. You can honor what you felt and still walk away.

Let your heart break open — not to bleed out, but to grow. To become more.

And to the one I loved:

You’ll always be part of my story. What we had was real — raw, rare, unforgettable. We built something beautiful, even if it couldn’t last. Some connections aren’t meant to stay; they’re meant to transform. Ours did.

I’ll carry that love, not with regret, but with reverence. Because few ever get to feel what we felt. Even if it broke us in the end, it shaped me. I’m grateful for it.

So I say goodbye now…

…but the flame still burns, somewhere deep inside.