There are evenings when everything seems unnecessary. The lights are too bright, the music is too loud, and the news seems to be from another life. There is a mood when you don’t want to leave, not hide, but just turn everything off. And then I go to the kitchen. Not to cook something complicated. Often it’s just potatoes boiled in their skins. Or porridge. Or even a piece of pie from yesterday. But I take out the candles. The simplest ones. Sometimes they’re a little crooked. Sometimes they have a vanilla scent that sticks to your nose a little. But with them, everything is different.

I used to think that a candlelit dinner is when a man gives you a surprise. Or you spend half a day preparing to impress. I grew up on a farm, we didn’t have these ceremonies. Dinner was functional: eat and go. But one day I turned on only candles. Simply because I didn’t want the light. And everything changed.

Eating became slow. Tastier. I looked at my plate as if for the first time I saw what food looked like. How a drop of oil glistened on a warm potato. How steam rose and smoothly disappeared into the air. Everything slowed down.

I started talking to myself. Not listening. But inside. Asking questions. Remembering the day. Letting go of thoughts. Not as a habit, but as if it was supposed to be that way. As if the fire forced you to be more honest.

When I lived with my grandmother, our power was often turned off. And she lit candles. At the time, it seemed an inconvenience. But now I understand - those were the warmest evenings. She was boiling milk, talking slowly, and I was sitting, listening, not interrupting. Then something was born - a feeling that there can be too much light. That in the semi-darkness everything is real.

Over time, it became a habit. I stopped waiting for a reason. Candles are not needed for a date. They are a date in themselves. With the moment. With yourself. With silence.

They told me: well, you're romanticizing. And I answered - yes, so what? If I can make the evening more beautiful with one movement, why not? Isn't that self-care?

I started collecting little things. Plates with a crack, but favorite ones. A spoon that I found at a flea market. Cloth napkins that smell like summer. All this adds up to a ritual. Not obligatory, but desired.

And no, I don't try every time. Sometimes I eat from a blanket, sitting on a kitchen stool. Sometimes — just from a saucepan. But if I have the strength — I set the table. Even if it’s just for myself. Because I exist. And I am enough.

There was a time when my ex came over. We hadn’t seen each other for a year. He came in for a minute, stayed for two hours. I put the tea on, lit the candles. He said, “Your place is like a movie.” I smiled. But the candles aren’t for him. It’s me — like a movie. And I feel good about it.

I learned to notice how a candle changes a room. The shadows become alive. They dance. They remind you that everything is moving. Even if you’re sitting. Even if you think you’re stuck. The fire isn’t standing. And you’re not standing.

Sometimes I dream that one day someone will come over and we’ll have a candlelit dinner together. Not on purpose. Just because. Without a reason. As a continuation of what I did alone. But if that doesn’t happen — no problem. I’m not waiting. I already am.

It's funny, but one day I was eating bread and butter and it felt like a feast. Not because the food was unusual. But because I was sitting up straight, breathing calmly and enjoying it. And it's not magic. It's attention.

Sometimes romance isn't roses or rings. It's looking at your tea in a cup and smiling. It's the moment when you put on beautiful pajamas not for someone else. It's the silence that no one breaks.

I think candles remind us of the main thing. That you can be. Just be. And that's enough. That a moment doesn't have to be perfect to be magical.