I became the ash, so they could be the flame. I stood in the corridor’s deepest shadow, a ghost haunting the funeral of my own happiness. Not only that, but I watched them lean into each other, as their silhouettes merging into a single, cruel shape against the light. She was wearing the necklace I’d spent my last savings on to make her feel beautiful, and he was using the, soft, low voice he once reserved only for my ears. The pain wasn't a sharp scream; it was the heavy, suffocating weight of molten stone. I had paved this path for them with the wreckage of my own heart. Furthermore, I was the one who smoothed over their misunderstandings, the one who whispered her virtues to him when he was ready to walk away, the one who stepped into the fire so they could walk on cool ground. I had sacrificed every dream, every selfish "mine," until there was nothing left of me but this hollow shell. I had bled myself dry to paint their masterpiece, and now I had to stand back and pretend I wasn't dying of thirst.I reached out to touch the wall, my fingers tracing the cold stone as if to remind myself I still existed. They didn't see me. They couldn't. You don't look at the charcoal once the fire is burning bright. I was the fuel, and I had done my job too well. I had burned everything I was to give them a warmth I would never feel again.

i guess...it all worked out in the end..

..they're both smiling...😊