For B, in Another Lifetime

People say there are three types of people in this world. The ones who run headfirst into the fire because they can’t bear not knowing what it feels like to burn. The ones who see a flame and immediately search for an exit, terrified of getting scarred. And then, there are people like us. The kind who just… stand there. We watch the fire grow, we feel the heat on our skin, and we keep convincing ourselves that as long as we don’t touch it, we aren't actually in danger. But standing still in a burning room is just another way of dying, isn’t it?

Look at the big picture now. Look at these two entirely separate lives we’ve built, orbiting galaxies that will never intersect again. But when I zoom in, all the way past the noise of the years and the other people, I still see that 3rd-grade classroom across the hall. I see a silent, shy boy who never spoke, yet delivered the most elegant greetings on pieces of notebook paper covered in intricate drawings.

I remember when those simple sketches in the corridor evolved. By Grade 4, they were vibrant paintings of flowers, as if you needed colors to articulate what words couldn't. I loved you by sixth grade. It was a small, fragile seed that took root inside me, and you kept watering it with silent understandings. I never said a word because I was terrified of rejection or maybe it was pride, but I kept holding it all in. I convinced myself we didn't need to speak, that the understanding in your eyes said enough.

But then came the "almosts." Those moments in empty hallways when the laughter had faded, where an admission seemed poised to happen. And then a classmate would notice us and start teasing, and you would pull away, frantically shaking your head, denying me. Leaving me behind to drown in that crushing silence.

We crossed paths in college, holding hands on quiet weekend walks, sharing a kiss that felt both monumental and frightening. We were always on the verge, but never actually there. And when the timing finally aligned, when the universe handed us a moment where we could have put a name to whatever this connection was, you cowered. You didn't just walk away; you purposefully chose to break me. You picked someone else, seemingly for the sole purpose of making me hate you, putting a distance between us that couldn't be crossed. I spent years wondering why the easiest choice for you was always the one that shattered me.

Then, adulthood. The cycle of missed connections. Our timing was always slightly off, I’d be single, you’d be committed, or the other way around. Until we finally met again. By then, I was already fully, deeply committed to someone else. The tension was still there, palpable in the air, even though you claimed those days were gone and you only wanted friendship. But then, in a quiet admission, you confessed it. You whispered that I was the one who got away. It was a strange, hollow victory. A total vindication that arrived too late to be anything other than tragic.

I thought about that day you showed up at my front door. I wasn't home. My family told me about it later, but you never came back, and you never explained. That was our final, silent contract. We just... understood. We stopped seeing each other.

So now, here we are. Deeply committed to other lives, other people, anchored by the realization that there is no turning back time. The possibility is gone. But still, despite everything, you haunt my dreams from time to time, that short boy from across the hall. And you left a message in my inbox that still sits there, unread. It’s a small, stubborn echo of something that almost was.

It’s too late for us in this life. Maybe in another.

But there is just one thing that keeps me awake, you see. I need to know, for the sake of the ghost I still carry, for that little girl in the hallway with hope in her hands.

If you knew all along that we were the ones standing still in the fire, did you decide not to move because you were too scared to get burned, or were you just curious to see how long I would wait before I turned to ash?