I glanced at the dinner table, the untouched meal, the wine slowly warming in the ice bucket, and the candles burning lower than ever. The entire night felt like a mockery of the life I thought we were building.
Frustration bubbled up inside me, and before I knew it, I was moving, grabbing the nearest candle off the table and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall, the wax splattering against the paint as the flame flickered out. But it wasn’t enough. I grabbed another, then another, hurling them without care.
Suddenly, a flicker of flame caught on the tablecloth, the fire spreading faster than I could react. I froze, watching in horror as the fabric ignited, the flames licking at the edge of the table. Panic surged through me, and I stumbled backward, grabbing a pitcher of water from the counter and dousing the flames. The fire hissed and sputtered, smoke curling up toward the ceiling, the acrid smell filling the room.
My heart pounded in my chest as I stood there, panting, the smoke making my eyes water.