And when that final act comes, it comes with cruelty, silence, coldness—maybe even a smile—as they vanish, as if your tears were a standing ocean. And right there, in the quiet after the storm, the truth settles in your chest like a stone. You weren’t in love with a person; you were ensnared by a performance. The charm, the sweetness, the “you’re my soulmate” speech—that was the costume. But now the stage lights are off, the audience is gone, and what’s left is the hollow shell of someone who never had the capacity to love in the first place.
Now listen to me: don’t waste another drop of your sacred energy trying to resurrect what was never real. You are not broken; you were targeted because your light is rare, your love is powerful, and your soul was rich with life. And though the narcissist saw all of that and tried to drain it dry, guess what? You’re still here, still breathing, still burning. And that, my friend, is where your true story begins.
Oh, let me break it to you like a thunderclap on a still night: the narcissist’s drug of choice isn’t love; it’s chaos—sweet, twisted chaos. And the more it bleeds from your heart, the higher they get. See, the narcissist doesn’t just crave attention; that’s entry-level. What really makes their soul thicker, what ignites that fire behind the mask, is control—not just any control, but the kind where they sit back with a smirk while you spiral. While you bend over backward trying to decode a game that was rigged from the beginning, you were trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces, and the narcissist was the one hiding them under the table.
You thought your loyalty meant something, didn’t you? You thought the nights you stayed up crying, the prayers you whispered, the grace you kept giving mattered. But to the narcissist, that was just the background hum to their performance. They didn’t hear the love in your voice; they were listening for the break, the tremble, the desperation. Because that ache in your voice, that confusion in your eyes—that’s their adrenaline. That’s the hit they crave. They don’t want peace; they don’t want healing; they want reaction—the tears, the panic, the “I can’t lose you, please.” That’s what keeps them warm at night.
And the darkest part? They think you’ll stay like that forever—broken, helpless, and haunted. But here’s where it turns: reality is a brutal teacher, and eventually, it kicks the narcissist in the teeth. See, they thought they were royalty—divine, untouchable—and you? You reinforced that. You loved them with the kind of depth that saints write psalms about. But they never saw it as a gift; they thought it was owed to them, like the sun rising or breath filling their lungs. They thought your devotion was their right.
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