She is fire.

She sparks and rages, spits and smokes, radiates a heat that could burn him to cinders.

Oh, but he is water.

He gushes and sprays, drops and trickles, ceaselessly flows and cuts through the toughest of surfaces.

He could put her out if he wanted to.

She doesn’t realise it, but he never lets himself forget it.

And when people ask him how they can be together, he tells them it's the only way to ensure that they each play their parts.

She will not bother to continue burning without me there to reflect her light back to her. Her wild, hot flames would die out to cold embers. Her magnificent presence will disappear and leave, in its place, a mess of black ash.

But what about you, they probe further, why would water need fire?

How else would I stay relevant and bursting with life? Without her there to constantly test my resolve, I wouldn't know where I belonged. The awareness that I could destroy her is seductive. Yet, it's the very thing that keeps us both alive.

She is the fire that keeps me warm and lit up. I am the water that gently, yet steadily carries her flickering flames forward. Could there be a greater love story?