There is a specific kind of arsonist who doesn't run away after lighting the match. He stays to watch the structure burn, not because he loves the fire, but because he needs to marvel at his own
ability to destroy something so solid. It is a terrifying paradox: he needs you to be the witness to your own execution. He doesn't hide the knife; he polishes it in front of you, counting on the
fact that your love is a blindfold thick enough to block out the glint of the blade. He gambles on your denial. He bets the house on your hope.
I watched you fold yourself into the shape of a blind woman just to keep him in focus.
He wasn’t hiding her. That would have been too easy, too mundane for a pathology like his. Hiding implies guilt, and he didn't feel guilty; he felt powerful. He needed the danger of the "almost." He needed the adrenaline of the near-miss to feel anything at all.
Remember the phone vibrating on the nightstand? The message that flashed across the screen, graphic and longing, meant for a stranger’s skin? And then, the casual, cruel follow-up: "Sorry, wrong person. Just joking with the guys."
That wasn't a slip of the thumb. That was a precision airstrike.
He sent that text to you on purpose. He wanted the jolt of your heart stopping. He wanted to see the color drain from your face, to watch you scramble for an explanation that didn't hurt, only to have him graciously "reassure" you. He created the storm just so he could be the umbrella. It was a sick validation: if he could wreck you with three words, he must be a giant.
And the video calls—God, the audacity of the screen.
He would look you in the eye, pixels arranging themselves into the face of a man who missed you, while his hands were busy under the frame. He was texting her while telling you about his day. He was setting up a date with her while asking what you were having for dinner.
He wasn't just cheating on your body; he was cheating on your reality.
He did it right under your nose because the risk was the only thing that fed that starving, cavernous ego. He felt like a mastermind because he could look at you and lie without blinking. He thought he was playing 4D chess, moving women like pawns, triumphing over your intuition.
But looking back, you have to see the tragedy of it.
A man so hollow he had to manufacture chaos just to feel full. A man who had to break a woman who loved him just to prove he was strong enough to hold the pieces.
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