Seven Day Writing Challenge Day Four if I Were the Little Match Girl
Luna Tian
If I were the little match girl,
I wouldn’t light that last match.
Because even in the darkness, I’d still want to know—
is someone waiting for me?
If I truly lived like her—trapped in extreme poverty, with no one to help—
then I wouldn’t have dreams.
I wouldn’t think about the future.
Because in that moment, I’d only have one question:
How do I survive today?
In Hans Christian Andersen’s tale, the girl’s death feels like an inevitable fate.
She lives in utter destitution, abandoned by society, alone on a freezing street.
This story isn’t fantasy—it’s a brutal mirror, reflecting the indifference and injustice of 19th-century Europe.
For her, survival isn’t just a word—it’s a daily torment.
Hunger, cold, and violence define her world.
Even if she sold every match, she’d only return to a home filled with fear.
Day after day, she would roam the streets, pleading with strangers.
To die might even seem like a release.
Let’s go back for a moment—back to 19th-century Denmark.
The urban poor were trapped at the bottom of society.
She would have had no education, no job prospects—she was only a child—
and could only trade matches for scraps of food.
Even in a Christian Europe, where heaven was hoped for,
people ignored the suffering right in front of them.
She didn’t fear the cold as much as she feared going home.
She feared the beatings.
And yet, she had no choice.
No legal protection.
No right to even ask for help.
Her only hope was the kindness of strangers.
Maybe—just maybe—she’d gather the courage to walk into a church, a convent,
or a rare charitable organization.
If she was lucky, perhaps she’d be taken in by one of the few orphanages of the time.
The conditions would be harsh, the discipline strict,
but it would still be warmer than the streets.
She might learn how to wash clothes, to sew, to pray.
She might meet other girls discarded by the world.
And if she made it a few more years, gained some basic skills,
maybe she could work as a maid in a wealthy household or in a textile factory.
If she saved up a little, perhaps she could buy a used sewing machine
and open a small tailor shop—
making clothes for workers and widows, maybe even patching torn garments for free.
And if one day she saw another shivering girl on the corner,
she might gently ask:
“Are you cold? Do you want to come warm up with me?”
That’s the gentlest, most fragile of dreams.
But what if I were her—and I lived today?
Would there be more possibilities?
Maybe I’d sneak my father’s phone,
connect to the mall’s free Wi-Fi,
and catch a glimpse of another kind of life.
Maybe I’d see short videos from homeless youth,
or posts teaching people how to escape abusive homes.
I might read the comments:
“Call the police.”
“Find a social worker—they’ll help you.”
And maybe, I’d gather the courage to walk into a police station.
To ask for help.
If I were in Denmark,
maybe—just maybe—there’d be a real chance.
But if I were a girl in China,
things might not be so simple.
If I tried to report abuse,
the police might call it a “family matter”
and tell me to “go home and resolve your conflicts.”
If I found a social worker,
they might say, “You don’t belong to this district.”
If I had no hukou—no household registration—
getting into an orphanage would be near impossible.
And if I ran away,
I might be labeled a “problem child”
and thrown into juvenile detention.
The thresholds of law are too high.
The cracks in the system are too deep.
And no one wants to open the door
for a child with no background,
no papers,
and no voice.
But I would still want to live.
I’d search online for underground support networks—
those small shelters built by runaway teens, marginalized souls,
and adults willing to walk beside them.
Maybe I’d post anonymously, make videos,
try to let the world hear me.
Maybe someone would send donations,
or at least tell me what to do next.
Maybe I’d live in a repurposed warehouse turned into a temporary shelter,
sweeping floors, cooking meals in exchange for a bed.
I’d learn to survive in the city:
collecting bottles, washing dishes, delivering food,
avoiding eviction.
Maybe even editing short videos on my phone,
telling my story on TikTok or Xiaohongshu.
Life would be hard.
But I’d start to understand something:
Not everyone will help me—
but someone will.
What truly helps me stand again
wouldn’t be a one-time donation.
It would be the slow accumulation of three things:
- A skill that can feed me.
- An identity I no longer deny.
- A life story that earns respect and understanding.
Once I have these,
I wouldn’t just be surviving—
I’d be creating value.
For myself, and for others.
If I made it that far,
I’d want to help others like me.
I could teach them how to survive the city,
how to avoid danger,
how to recognize kindness.
I could reply to their comments,
collect second-hand goods,
deliver tents and hot water.
And when I’m older,
I might still wash dishes, sew, deliver takeout, or fix phones—
not because that’s all I can do,
but because I’ve chosen not to disappear.
These paths are narrow.
But they are still paths.
And as long as I live,
a little light will always find a way through the cracks.