I was sixteen, sprawled on the living room floor, doodling in a notebook while the TV hummed in the background. My sister, Lila, burst through the door, her cheeks flushed from the autumn chill. She tossed her scarf onto the couch and said, βYou gotta live like the worldβs on fire, kid.β I laughed, thinking she was being her usual dramatic self. But those words? They stuck. They were the last ones she ever said to me. A week later, she was goneβtaken by a car accident that still feels like a bad dream. Have you ever had a moment that replays in your mind, uninvited, shaping everything you do?
Thereβs this ache, you know? Itβs not loud or sharp anymore, but itβs there, like a quiet hum in my chest. Lilaβs words werenβt just a quirky one-liner; they were a command, a plea, a spark. I carry them like a compass. Back then, I was shy, content to hide in my sketchbooks, afraid of messing up. Lila was the oppositeβbold, messy, alive. Sheβd drag me to open mic nights, force me to sing karaoke, or make me dance in the rain when Iβd rather stay dry. Her words keep pushing me, even now, to step into the fire of life instead of watching from the sidelines.
Take last summer, for instance. I was at a crossroadsβstuck in a dead-end job, too scared to chase my dream of opening an art studio. Iβd sit at my desk, doodling on sticky notes, feeling like I was betraying that sixteen-year-old me who promised Lila Iβd live fiercely. Then one evening, I passed a street performer playing a violin so passionately it stopped traffic. I thought, Lila wouldβve danced to this. So, I quit my job the next day. Risky? Sure. But I rented a tiny space, hung my paintings, and started teaching art classes. Itβs not perfectβsome days I barely break evenβbut it feels like Iβm honoring her. Like Iβm keeping her fire alive.
Living like the worldβs on fire isnβt always grand gestures. Sometimes itβs small, like trying a new recipe and laughing when it burns, or saying yes to a last-minute road trip with friends. Other times, itβs harderβlike forgiving someone when youβd rather hold a grudge, or speaking up when your voice shakes. I think of Lila when Iβm scared to take that leap. Her words remind me that lifeβs too short to play it safe. Donβt you ever wonder what youβd do if you werenβt afraid of failing?
Iβm not saying itβs easy. Some days, I miss her so much I canβt breathe. Iβll see someone with her wild curls or hear a song she loved, and itβs like losing her all over again. But those words? Theyβre my anchor. They pull me back, make me choose courage over comfort. I talk to her sometimes, in my head, asking if sheβs proud of me. I like to think sheβs grinning, saying, βKid, youβre finally getting it.β
Whatβs the fire in your life? Whatβs that one thingβor one personβthat pushes you to live a little louder, a little braver? For me, itβs Lilaβs voice, still echoing, daring me to burn bright. Iβm trying, sis. Iβm really trying.
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