And if you were the sun, I wouldn’t fear the burn

“Just like Icarus, who knew that flying toward the sun would destroy him — I, too, would burn for even a moment of your warmth.”

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They warned me the way they warned Icarus — not to fly too close to something that could become my undoing. Yet I carried every warning like a prophecy of ruin already written for me.

But you never felt dangerous. You felt like warm light slipping through half-open curtains after a long winter.

And perhaps that was why I kept moving closer — to you. To the sun.

Just like Icarus, who knew that flying toward the sun would destroy him — I, too, would burn for even a moment of your warmth.

And perhaps, to the world, Icarus and I are nothing more than arrogant fools.

But isn’t love, sometimes, a selfish choice we make? To know the cost and reach for it anyway.

Icarus knew what he was doing all along — so did I.

Icarus did not regret soaring toward the sun, even as it melted the wax from his wings. For though its light touched him only briefly, he still believed the burn was worth it — so did I.

And Icarus laughed as he fell — so did I.

Because if you were the sun, I wouldn’t fear the burn.