This isn’t going to work, you know. I can’t offer you my shattered self and pretend that it’s whole. I can’t do that, same as I can’t let you think you can fix me. You can’t, and not for lack of trying. I’m just beyond repair.
You see, I couldn’t be more sincere in saying that it’s not you, it’s me. You’re probably a great guy. I bet that we’d find a lot of common ground given the chance, and I imagine that those little sparks you mentioned could turn into a roaring fire given the right conditions. But you have to understand that I’m a burn victim. My body and soul are in ashy ruins. I’m wary of flames beyond what you could ever comprehend.
It was more than just another heart breaking, and I wish you could have been there to witness it. Then maybe I could make you understand. My entire being – body and soul – was not just broken, but annihilated. And the worst part is that I’m still madly in love with the arsonist.
So, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. You could’ve found me months ago and told me that you’re a firefighter, but it wouldn’t change things; I couldn’t have been stopped. I was a pyro and he gave me all the fireworks I could ever ask for. I only wish I could’ve known that he’d be gone before the smoke settled.