Cigarette

I keep telling myself it was nothing.

Just a flick.
Just a spark.

Just a moment I should've forgotten. But it clings to me, replaying in the back of my mind like a glitch I can't reset.

The diesel truck behind me was too close, its grille was filling my mirror like a metal snarl, lights beaming in my mirrors. It kept surging forward, then backing off, then lunging again like a predator testing the distance. I matched it without thinking, slowing down just enough to needle him, then speeding up just enough to pretend I wasn't afraid.

My cigarette was almost out and my nerves were frayed. Could barely hold the cigarette right. My fingers shook with irritation, adrenaline, you know that ugly heat that comes from being pushed past your limit. Then I rolled the window all the way down and flicked the cigarette out with a sharp snap of my fingers. And then I saw it.

Not a flame.
Not a fire.
But just... a spark.

A tiny orange kiss against the truck's grille. It flashed for half a second like a firefly landing on metal and then it vanished. The truck didn't swerve, didn't slow. Didn't react. But I actually laughed, relieved, stupidly proud of myself for "winning" whatever pointless road‑rage game we were playing.

I wanted it to be nothing.
I needed it to be nothing.

I sped off, letting the open road pull the anger out of me. Let my adrenaline rush cool itself down and by the time I got home, the moment had dissolved. Back to my normal routine I went. Showered, wrapped myself in a blanket and let the TV hum in the background.

The world felt small again, safe again, quiet again. Until the emergency alert shattered the room.

A sharp tone.
A red banner.
A voice that sounded strained, urgent, already exhausted.

"This is a critical incident update. Highway 33 is closed due to a major fire involving a propane transport vehicle. Multiple agencies are responding. Evacuation perimeter established. Casualties confirmed."

My breath stopped and the screen switched to live footage.

The flames roaring upward, black smoke rolling across the sky like a storm. Fire crews moved like shadows swallowed by heat. Cars were twisted metal and the road looked torn open.

"Ignition point appears to have originated at the front of the vehicle. Cause under investigation."

My stomach dropped so violently I felt the room tilt.

They zoomed in on the truck, its front end charred black, melted into the asphalt. The reporter's voice wavered as she continued:

"Witnesses describe a sudden flash at the grille moments before the fire accelerated."

My heartbeat thudded in my teeth.

That spark.
That tiny flicker I saw.

The one I told myself didn't matter. It hit me all at once, the moment it flashed, the moment I dismissed it, the moment I sped away thinking I'd "won."

I didn't know.

But I saw it. And now I can't unsee it. Every breath feels like its escapingme. Every thought circles back to that half‑second of orange light. I didn't mean to start anything. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.

But the truth sits in my chest like a shard of glass:

I sparked it.
I drove away.
And people died.

No one will ever know.
Except me.
Or will it all trace back to me?