They told me,

“Don’t go near the fire.”

That it would hurt me.

That it would ruin me.

That I would never come back the same.

They were right.

I got too close.

And yes—it hurt.

I cried.

I screamed.

I broke.

But I stayed.

Not because I wanted to suffer—

but because I wanted to understand.

And slowly,

through ash and scar,

I did.

The fire stopped being a monster.

It became something else.

My companion.

I chose to stay beside the fire.

Yes, it burns me sometimes.

But it doesn’t want to hurt.

That’s just… how fire exists.

And I tell it,

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

People say the fire is dangerous.

That it should be abandoned—

left far behind.

But no one ever asks

if the fire feels lonely, too.

I tell them:

The fire has feelings.

And they laugh.

They don’t believe me.

But I’ve seen the way it flickers

when someone turns away.

I’ve seen it go quiet

when no one stays.

I love the fire.

And I love you.

But the fire is so lonely—

that’s why I stay.

And people—

they flinch when they see us.

They say I should have left.

That I’m wrong to stay.

That the blackened skin means I’ve failed.

But we don’t want your love.

We don’t want your pity.

We only ask:

Please don’t treat us like we’re not real.

And if you can—

Look at us,

once in a while.

Talk with us,

only a little.

That would be enough.

—- The Wanderer.