There’s something oddly stirring when a former flame reappears — that brief flicker when a romance from what feels like a lifetime ago suddenly resurfaces, if only for a moment.
It’s strange how the remnants of a week in New York last July can linger, months later. We met on Fire Island, a small strip of land just a few seas from the city — an oasis, though only fifty miles from Manhattan, that always felt like it belonged to another world — one rooted in fantasy that you can only reach by ferry and a little faith. Imagine a place with no roads, but endless pathways to joy — a labyrinth of boardwalks nestled between trees, beach, and the sweet symphonies of song and sun.
It wasn’t a romance for the ages, by any means, but it was enough for the summer — that kind of energetic exchange that sparks life in us and sets our woes ablaze under a disco ball, even if its lifespan is limited. Come September, our fling faded into fall, and our Fire Island fantasy dried up with the sun of seasons past. But perhaps that’s the thing about affection — it can be as fiery as it is fleeting, until it suddenly reignites in the face of reality.
“Hi Daniel, I just wanted to check in to see that you and your family are safe. Sending my love.”
My eyes began to leak from loss and the mourning of what was — blurring my vision as I stared at the phone in my hand. Its screen glared back at me and the letters began to distort into symbols I couldn’t interpret. We had explored Malibu together during that one visit in August. We walked along the beach, barefoot and free, as I pointed out my favorite houses along the shore — the vibrant fixtures that stood by the sand for decades and defined one of my most cherished havens. I didn’t know how to type back that they were all reduced to ash now.
Watching my homeland battle flames for days was the hardest heartbreak I’ve ever had to endure. Rampant winds fueled brushfires of destruction, sweeping through the hills of our city and the valleys of our souls. Aching for acres, Los Angeles was losing. Historic landmarks faltered to the fire and pieces of our home I once found impenetrable withered into memory.
Turning on the television felt like watching a dystopian horror film — something that should only exist on a Hollywood movie set. But as I kept my eyes fixed on the screen in front of me, the Hollywood hills were blazing in real life. Gridded maps with evacuation warnings darkened from orange to red, and the “Breaking News” broke me — diminishing any embers of hope I had left.
As the smoke outside thickened into an opaque mist of misery, ashes began to rain down on us — and the Palisades crumbled. Its quaint streets, once winding through rows of cafés and boutiques, now stood grey and grim. The gleaming ocean of blues that once was became smothered under a blanket of crimson, and the sway of palm trees turned into a shudder of desperation. A village of culture that had long woven the fabric of Los Angeles started to fray under the heat — and so did we, our sense of security unraveling until we were reduced to threads.
Sounds of sirens roared outside my window as they raced to other areas of the city — their wailing sending a chill down my spine. The sharp beeping of an alert sliced through the smoke, vibrating in unison with the pounding of my heart. I glanced at my phone, and an evacuation warning consumed my vision. Panic surged through me, and the fragile sense of control I had clung to melted away instantly.
My legs moved before my mind had the chance to catch up. I ran to my closet and yanked my suitcase from its usual spot. As I rummaged through my belongings, I found myself revisiting the experiences they represented — the tuxedo I wore to Alex’s wedding in Mexico and the olive-green corduroy blazer from my first day of work, the leather boots I’d worn dancing with Roxy under warm metallic lights and the scarves that hugged my neck during colder times, the tank tops that left tan lines on my skin and life-lines on my face from all the laughter that took place in them, and and of course, the baseball caps I always wore backwards – even when the sun was in my face.
I tried to decide what to pack in case I had to leave, and suddenly, I wasn’t walking through just my closet anymore. I was sifting through a time capsule of life lived, with so many pieces of my past hanging there in front of me. Right then, I came to understand what mattered most: not the things themselves, but the moments they held.
I packed a few treasures into my bag before continuing through the house and started to grab the things I couldn’t leave behind. Minutes later, I looked down. Picture frames, albums, birthday cards and high school yearbooks filled my arms — and I realized how heavy holding onto all these memories could feel.
Conditions outside continued to intensify as news channels broadcasted the chaos unfolding. My phone kept ringing, but this time, it wasn’t just evacuation alerts. Texts poured in from friends and family — checking in on me, offering places to stay if needed and making sure I was safe, as “are you ok?” was the new “I love you.”
I paused my panic to check social media — not just for updates, but perhaps for a few moments of distraction. As I scrolled, I saw friends offering their homes to those displaced, and restaurants providing free meals to people affected by the fires. Peers shared news stories about firefighters arriving from neighboring cities and countries, risking their lives to save ours. Colleagues posted links for donations to help those who had lost everything, while others simply shared words of encouragement and hope — their voices reaching me from the digital world like a lifeline.
As the days passed, these glimmers of kindness continued to radiate through the haze of destruction. Strangers at the grocery store exchanged small talk through their masks, neighbors I’d never met waved at me from across the street, and drivers on the road gave knowing smiles as they signaled lane changes with their hands. In all of it, I began to feel something I hadn’t in days — a connection to humanity, one that the fires could not burn, but only shed light on. But there was also a quiet, unspoken grief in the air — the understanding that some losses were too deep to mend with kindness alone. For many, this fire wasn’t just about rebuilding homes; it was about rebuilding lives, relationships, and the very essence of what it means to have a place to belong.
“Thank you for checking in, I really appreciate the text. I’m safe, but devastated. But once this all passes, we will be ok. LA will make it — it has to,” I wrote back.
As I hit send, a new kind of fire ignited inside me — one sparked by a resilience I could feel rumbling at my core. While the aftermath of this devastation will forever change the soul of our city, perhaps the true power of such a disaster is not its ability to burn us — but in how we fight through the flames.
Contemplating such a loss still feels surreal, and I pray that we’ll eventually open our eyes and wake up from this nightmare on an island far away from the fire. And while the flames that raged through our city have left their scars, another fire burns brighter — the one inside that warms us, fuels us, and inspires us to rise from the ashes.
As we find our footing in this new phase of life, perhaps what truly matters is where we go from here — and who we run to. Because one day, after the smoke clears, we will dance again — on the same shores, beneath the same skies, with the same light that has carried us all along.
