Chapter 2 - Part 2 - The Narcissist: Starring him, Written by him, Directed by him

Disclaimer: Not a psychologist. Just speaking from books, life, and experience.

So where was I?

Ah yes. The doorbell.

I knew it was him. I threw on a robe with the grace of a woman who definitely didn’t regret letting this man into her life. Again.

There he was. Puppy eyes. The face of someone who felt mildly bad about being a walking red flag. I sighed, mostly at myself, and let him in.

Did my heart melt? No. My heart went, “Oh. It’s you again.” I always knew he was Mister Right Now—a temporary subscription, no auto-renew. But in that moment, I felt it: the end was circling like a shark.

Tic. Toc.

His exes? Monsters, obviously. Deranged, unreasonable, probably ran cults. And him? The misunderstood oracle of truth. Politics, religion, life itself—he had it all figured out. I just needed to get on board his cruise ship of delusion.

The arguments popped up like ads on a sketchy website. By weeks 6 and 7, my words were no longer my own. Everything I said became twisted into some new accusation. I could’ve said, “I like tacos,” and he’d twist it into, “So you admit you don’t respect me!”

He always took me by surprise.

But I’m a chronic empath. I try to understand people. It’s adorable, really—like a kitten trying to befriend a cobra. So I believed him. Apologized. Repented.

Every other day: a new grievance. A new drama.

At first, I didn’t get mad. I thought he was just… wounded. Complex. Spoiler: he wasn’t. He was just an emotional arsonist, and I kept handing him matches.

By week 8, I cried. (To be fair, I was on my period. So anything from a broken shoelace to climate change would’ve done it.)

Suddenly, he turned sweet. Gentle. Almost human. And I felt… hope?

Ha.

Three days later, Mount Narcissus erupted again. Lava everywhere. I finally snapped. Full banshee. I yelled. I cried. Matched his energy—and somewhere in the eye of that storm, a tiny voice whispered: “Could it be…?”

I called my copper friend and her detective boyfriend. (Every woman should have at least one friend with a badge and a built-in BS detector.)

I laid it all out. The patterns. The drama. The emotional whiplash.

They listened, then said, “You already know what this is. Now what are you going to do about it?”

Boom. A covert narcissist. A true Bond villain—minus the charm and wardrobe.

I didn’t call him that evening. Didn’t reply to his morning texts either. Ha. No thanks.

By afternoon, I called. Calm. Detached. He recapped our 8-week romance like a defense attorney—he was the victim, I was the menace. I let him talk, then tore his logic to shreds like wrapping paper.

He felt the shift. And he panicked.

He lashed out. Insulted me. That’s when I stopped him and, with monk-like calm, said:

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

(Preferably far, far away from me.)

He hung up. Then called back, soft as butter. “It was really nice getting to know you,” he cooed.

I thanked him. Kindly. And mentally shoved the whole eight-week saga into a file marked: Never Again, Amen.

I took a deep breath.

I used to wonder how people fell for narcissists. Now I know.

It’s slow. Insidious. Like being hugged by a boa constrictor. At first, it feels warm. Then… your ribs crack.

And me? I was the perfect mark. People pleaser. Affection-starved. Hopeful. Basically a toddler in heels, wandering the dating wilderness with a juice box and no map.

I slid into a two-week slump.

My bestie—psychologist, clinic owner, carrier of infinite wisdom—asked, “Do you miss him?”

I thought about it.

“No,” I said. “I miss feeling wanted.”

That day, she quietly added me to the waiting list of one of her top psychologists. Perks of knowing people in high places.

As for me? I retreated. Not into another dating app—but into the morally complex arms of my fictional book boyfriends. You know, the ones who might be literal monsters but don’t gaslight you about your tone.

And dating?

Let’s just say I’m on sabbatical.

Love can wait.

Sanity comes first.