THE LAST MATCH IN A DAMP BOX BY THE WINDOW

Dear Delyara, It is 1:35 AM, and I just struck the last match from a small box I’ve been keeping in my drawer. I didn't even have a candle to light. I just wanted to watch the flame spark, flare up into a bright, desperate yellow, and then slowly choke itself out on its own sulfur. The tiny wood stick curled up in my fingers like a black ribbon, and for a second, the heat was so close it nipped the tip of my thumb. That sharp, immediate sting was the only real thing I’ve felt all night. It’s scary how comforting a tiny bit of fire can be when you’re surrounded by a silence so thick it feels like wet wool. I held the dead match until the wood went completely cold, realizing how much of my life is spent exactly like that—burning through my own heart in the dark just to prove to myself that I’m still warm inside.