There’s a fine line when it comes to burning bridges. I would know—I’ve burned plenty, and rightfully burned back. Sometimes I plan them in advance, knowing certain people were never meant to stay forever.
It’s the friend I thought was close, but who only saw me for one finite moment—until the glimmer was gone. Fires burn fast and burn bright, especially when the bridge is made of wood. But not all bridges are lost to fire.
Some lie low over the water, close enough to drown, sinking slowly from the steady rise of tension until they inevitably disappear beneath the surface. Those are the bridges I always think could have been saved—if pride hadn’t gotten in the way, or if we’d just met halfway. But then again, some people never learn to communicate.
And I’ve been that person, too. That’s why, sometimes, I light the match.