You know, people often ask me what happens to the narcissist when the curtain falls, when the show’s over, the stage lights dim, and the relationship ends. Maybe you finally found the strength to walk away, or maybe they disappeared first—cold, calculated. It doesn’t matter; the question still comes back, whispering late at night: What are they thinking now? Do they miss me? Do they even care?
Let’s talk about that—not the fantasy, not the version we wish were true, but the truth, the raw, unpolished truth. Let’s walk through the valley and look this thing dead in the face.
Now, I’m not here to give you sugar and smooth words. I’m here to shine a light in a dark place. So listen: Do they miss you? Yes and no. Not in the way your heart hopes for, but not in the sacred way people miss those they love. The narcissist doesn’t miss you; they miss what you gave them: the warmth in your voice, the way your eyes lit up when they walked into the room, the unconditional energy you poured out day after day.
They miss the supply—that’s the word, not love. You were the electricity that lit up their hollow stage. You gave; they took. And now you’re wondering if they feel your absence. They do, but not in the way you think. They don’t sit in silence cherishing memories, itching to be better for you. That’s what you would do. They feel the gap because the mirror they used to see themselves in—you—you’re gone. That’s silence; that’s not sorrow; that’s panic. Panic because they’ve lost control of the image they crafted; the mask is slipping.
See, to them, it wasn’t about you; it was about what you represented: an audience, applause, an anchor. You were the fountain pen gliding across the page—smooth, elegant, useful. But nobody weeps over a pen when it runs out of ink; they just reach for another one. I know that stings; it should. But it’s not your shame to carry; it’s a reflection of how broken they are inside.
You might be thinking, “Oh, but they told me I was the one. They promised forever; they cried in my arms.” Sure, they did. And then they sent you a message two days later that said, “No one will ever love you like I did.” Sounds poetic, doesn’t it? But translate that: “No one will ever tolerate me the way you did.” That ain’t love; that’s ego screaming as it falls from its throne.
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