one year ago, i gave life to two people who were never meant to be easy.
and i never— not even for a second— expected them to become what they are now.
"FireFish" were never just a story. it was a place i bled into, a version of love that didn’t ask for permission to exist, even when it hurt. they were messy from the start, annoyingly human and a little bit doomed from the start and i loved them for it in a way that felt almost unfair to everything else i’ve created ever since.
and a year later… they’re still here.
the love, the ache, the weight of them — it never really left. if anything, it settled deeper. quieter, maybe, but stronger. like something that chose to stay. and i think that’s the thing i keep coming back to:
pain like that doesn’t exist without love just as deep.
they hurt because they mattered. they still do.
there are pieces of me in every quiet glance between them, in every almost-touch, in every moment they chose each other even when the world made it impossible to stay.
and the most surreal, most humbling thing i’ve ever experienced is that they didn’t just live in me.
they lived in you, too.
people met them and carried them. felt them. hurt with them. remembered them.
that will never not feel like magic to me.
because what greater achievement is there, really, than creating something that lingers? something that follows people long after they finished reading? something that leaves fingerprints on hearts that were never mine to begin with?
it’s been a year, and they are still here.
in the quiet.
in the music.
in all the small, impossible ways of loving them through the ache.
happy anniversary to the love that burned fast, broke, and stayed anyway, forever. 🐝💔🦋✨
