It was a quiet evening, the kind that almost feels staged: soft music, a flickering candle, a glass of red wine, and the hum of a world finally slowing down. I was halfway through a novel I wasn’t really reading when it appeared.

A moth, pale and frantic, was circling the candle on my desk with a kind of obsessive grace. It moved like it was in love with the flame.

The Dance of Attraction

The moth didn’t just flutter past; it returned again and again, spiralling in toward the candle’s warm, golden center. There was a kind of desperation to it, a pull too strong to resist.

It reminded me of someone. No, something. The patterns I kept repeating. The people I kept choosing. The way I confused intensity with connection, danger with depth.

I watched it move closer with each pass, wings catching heat they weren’t meant to hold. And still, it kept returning.

The Moment It Stopped

Eventually, the moth fell. Gently, silently, onto the edge of the table. It twitched once and lay still, just inches from the flame it had chased so relentlessly.

I blew out the candle. Not out of guilt, but something closer to understanding. I couldn’t help the moth, but I could see myself more clearly in its struggle than I ever had in a mirror.

It wasn’t weakness that drew it in; it was longing. And longing, when left unchecked, will always search for light, even when it burns.