To every soul that’s walked through fire, those with tender hearts, deep wells of compassion, and spirits that carry truth like a torch in the night, you need to hear this:
The narcissist, that master of illusion, now sits in the shadows of their own making—not because they can’t see the wreckage they left behind, but because facing it means facing themselves, and that’s the one thing they can’t bear to do. You see, they burned bridges with gasoline smiles and charming lies. They twisted love into something unrecognizable, and now they stand on the other side of that canyon, longing to cross back but terrified of what they might find: a stronger you, a you who doesn’t flinch anymore, a you who stopped waiting.
They know what they did—oh, maybe not in the depth that you felt it, but deep down they know. And because they know, they can’t just waltz back in; that door doesn’t swing so easily anymore. Instead of knocking like the humble would, they play the old games. They post pictures that drip with fake perfection: smiles stretched too wide, new lovers too soon, vacations, upgrades, glowing skin—all curated to jab your heart just enough to make you wonder, “Did I imagine it all? Was I really the problem?”
Don’t fall for it. They call it strategy; I call it fear dressed in manipulation. They’re not healing; they’re hiding. They’re not moving on; they’re performing. Why? Because the thought of facing your silence, the weight of your absence, is unbearable to them. They lost the lifeline you once were, and they’re scrambling, not soaring. That hollow display on social media? It’s not love, it’s not joy—it’s bait, it’s theater. They need an audience to believe their own act, because being alone means sitting with the truth. And the truth is, they can’t do real intimacy; they never learned how.
They leap from soul to soul, craving the reflection of worth they can’t find within. Yes, that new person was likely already in the wings while you were still trying to fix what you didn’t break. But here’s what they didn’t expect: that they’d miss you—not the version they tried to mold, not the puppet they thought they controlled, but the radiant, powerful, spirit-led being who walked away. They underestimated the cost of losing someone who loved deeply and purely.
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And now, instead of courage, they choose games: indirect messages, sudden likes, memory triggers, silent hoovers meant to poke the wound they inflicted and see if it still bleeds. Don’t let it. You are not their supply; you are not a character in their script. You are the whole story they never learned how to read. The illusion may be loud, but truth whispers, and in that still small voice, it says, “You’re free.”
Let me tell you something that might just free you: the silence doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten. See, the narcissist doesn’t always come storming back through the front door. Sometimes they linger like smoke in the rafters; they’re there, watching, waiting—not out of love, but out of strategy. And when you’ve really started to heal, when your eyes start to shine again and your laughter doesn’t tremble anymore, that’s when the panic sets in for them.
Now, don’t be fooled by the quiet. Just because you haven’t been hoovered doesn’t mean you’ve slipped from their thoughts. No, they may be well aware that a direct approach won’t work anymore. Maybe they sense your strength; maybe they’ve seen you put up walls that don’t budge with sweet words or half-hearted apologies. So they don’t knock; they observe, they lurk, they scroll through your joy like it’s surveillance footage. And when they do Hoover, it’s not love; it’s a pulse check, a probe. They want to see: are you still bleeding? Are you still watching? If so, that attention feeds them, even from afar.
Some of those vague profiles that follow you, that oddly familiar comment from an account with no photo? Yeah, don’t underestimate how far the narcissist will go just to stay in your orbit, to stay relevant. They’ll disguise, deceive, disappear—only to reappear in a cloak of curiosity. And if they sense you’re moving on, truly moving on, that’s when fear grips them. Why? Because that new supply they flaunted so proudly is already losing its shine. It’s not enough; it never was. They didn’t expect you to glow without them; they thought you’d fade.
So now, they lean harder into illusion: more posts, more fake joy, more smiles that don’t reach the eyes. They’ll push it all into the spotlight, trying to sell the idea that they’re living their best life, that everything you gave them has now been multiplied without you. But don’t buy the show. Their happiness isn’t genuine; it’s a mask crafted from insecurity. Their affection isn’t deep; it’s a performance for the crowd. And if that love was real, they wouldn’t need an audience to believe it.
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Now you might be wondering: why haven’t they said anything? Why not just reach out? Because they’re afraid—afraid of your growth, afraid of your indifference, afraid of facing someone who no longer dances to their tune. To reach out would mean confronting the damage they caused, and they don’t have the humility or the tools to do that, honestly. So instead, you’ll get a message that sounds innocent enough: “Hey, how have you been?” But that message is a loaded trap; it’s a fishing line tossed into waters they hope still hold your heart.
And let me tell you, friend: don’t bite. You’ve come too far. You’ve cried too many nights. You’ve rebuilt your soul from splinters. A simple “hi” doesn’t get to walk back in like it never happened. That message is not repentance; it’s reconnaissance. They’re not here to heal with you; they’re here to hold on to you. But you’re not theirs to hold anymore.
So let them stay in the shadows. Let them watch you shine. Let their silence be the proof that they know you’re no longer a place they can return to. Because when someone trades real love for illusion, they don’t deserve a second seat at your table. They don’t even get to knock.
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