I keep thinking about the house we built —
not out of wood and nails,
but out of late nights, shared breaths,
and all the quiet ways you let me in.
And I keep replaying the moment
I struck the match without thinking
about how dry the walls already were.
Maybe if I hadn’t lit the fireplace,
the smoke wouldn’t have swallowed the ceilings,
the flames wouldn’t have learned our names.
But the truth is,
I thought loving you fast
was the same as loving you right.
I thought warmth was something you forced into a room
instead of something you protect.
You trusted me with keys
to rooms I didn’t even understand yet.
And somewhere between the doorways and the dust,
you gave me a name — baby —
like something small enough to hold,
safe enough to keep.
And you told me once, half smiling,
that it was my name — just scrambled,
like the letters of me were always meant
to find their way back to you.
I should’ve understood then
how carefully you were holding me.
Instead of walking carefully,
I ran through the halls like nothing could break.
I see it now —
how I made serious moments feel smaller,
how I made myself look like a joke
when you were trying to build something real with me.
And I hate that it took watching the roof collapse
to understand you were just trying
to give us somewhere safe to live.
You were trying to build a home.
I was just excited to be in it.
And now I’m standing outside,
trying to remember those beautiful windows
in the cold,
with smoke still in my lungs,
realizing how warm it was
when I had you to hold onto.
I loved that pretty blue door and the wood porch.
Only one of the lights worked on each side of those posts.
You knew it wouldn’t be perfect.
But you tried, and you hoped I could see it.
But I looked right past your efforts
and made myself into a priority, not a partner.
And now
some nights feel like sleeping on concrete,
like pulling a jacket tighter around myself
and wishing it was your arms instead.
Because a house isn’t just walls.
It’s the person who makes the storms quieter.
It’s the place your chest finally unclenches.
It’s knowing someone is choosing to stay
even when things get heavy.
I didn’t help make it feel like that for you.
And I’m so sorry.
I understand now that foundations
aren’t poured once and forgotten.
They’re maintained.
Checked.
Reinforced.
Protected by both people
or they crack under weight.
I know I can’t un-burn what’s gone.
I know trust doesn’t rebuild overnight.
But if you ever let me see the blueprints again —
if you ever let me hold a hammer next to you,
instead of playing with matches —
I would build slower.
Stronger.
With you, not just around you.
Because I don’t just want a house with you.
I want a home that knows both our names.
And don’t worry, I’ll stay far away from the fireplace this time.
Or honestly…
maybe we can just stick to space heaters
and emotional maturity.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 4:09 PM UTC
I keep thinking about the house we built —
not out of wood and nails,
but out of late nights, shared breaths,
and all the quiet ways you let me in.
And I keep replaying the moment
I struck the match without thinking
about how dry the walls already were.
Maybe if I hadn’t lit the fireplace,
the smoke wouldn’t have swallowed the ceilings,
the flames wouldn’t have learned our names.
But the truth is,
I thought loving you fast
was the same as loving you right.
I thought warmth was something you forced into a room
instead of something you protect.
You trusted me with keys
to rooms I didn’t even understand yet.
And somewhere between the doorways and the dust,
you gave me a name — baby —
like something small enough to hold,
safe enough to keep.
And you told me once, half smiling,
that it was my name — just scrambled,
like the letters of me were always meant
to find their way back to you.
I should’ve understood then
how carefully you were holding me.
Instead of walking carefully,
I ran through the halls like nothing could break.
I see it now —
how I made serious moments feel smaller,
how I made myself look like a joke
when you were trying to build something real with me.
And I hate that it took watching the roof collapse
to understand you were just trying
to give us somewhere safe to live.
You were trying to build a home.
I was just excited to be in it.
And now I’m standing outside,
trying to remember those beautiful windows
in the cold,
with smoke still in my lungs,
realizing how warm it was
when I had you to hold onto.
I loved that pretty blue door and the wood porch.
Only one of the lights worked on each side of those posts.
You knew it wouldn’t be perfect.
But you tried, and you hoped I could see it.
But I looked right past your efforts
and made myself into a priority, not a partner.
And now
some nights feel like sleeping on concrete,
like pulling a jacket tighter around myself
and wishing it was your arms instead.
Because a house isn’t just walls.
It’s the person who makes the storms quieter.
It’s the place your chest finally unclenches.
It’s knowing someone is choosing to stay
even when things get heavy.
I didn’t help make it feel like that for you.
And I’m so sorry.
I understand now that foundations
aren’t poured once and forgotten.
They’re maintained.
Checked.
Reinforced.
Protected by both people
or they crack under weight.
I know I can’t un-burn what’s gone.
I know trust doesn’t rebuild overnight.
But if you ever let me see the blueprints again —
if you ever let me hold a hammer next to you,
instead of playing with matches —
I would build slower.
Stronger.
With you, not just around you.
Because I don’t just want a house with you.
I want a home that knows both our names.
And don’t worry, I’ll stay far away from the fireplace this time.
Or honestly…
maybe we can just stick to space heaters
and emotional maturity.
