Where should I even begin? I've always known I was different. But not the kind of different you brag about at parties or show off to your friends. Mine was quiet. Invisible. The kind of different people feel but can't put into words. It was in the way I thought, the way I watched-in the way I could pull people into my world without them ever realizing it.
I loved the feeling of control. Over situations, over people, over things. And if I could, I'd even control the thoughts of others. The truth is, I don't understand people the way they understand themselves. I understand them like a chess player understands their pieces. Like a conductor understands a symphony. They have patterns, weaknesses, gaps they're not even aware of. That's where I come in. I fill those gaps with exactly what they want-what they need, crave, or secretly desire. I'm an artist in my own world. An actress whose stage is the human heart.
It's in my nature to observe. I see things others miss-the tilt of a head when someone lies, the twitch of a finger when they're caught. Words are overrated. Lies too often masquerade as truth. I learned early on that truth hides in the shadows-in movements, glances, involuntary gestures. So I became the shadow. And I learned to shape it. It started harmless-a smile at the right time, seemingly casual questions that were really threads, threads I'd use to slowly entangle someone.
I never needed loud words or grand performances. Everything I needed, I taught myself. Most people don't even realize I'm pulling the strings. In their minds, it's their choice to trust me, to open up, to confess things they've never told anyone-especially not so soon.
There's another constant in my life: time. I never stay with the same people for too long. They're like books to me-fascinating the first time I read them, intoxicating as I breathe in the scent of fresh pages, devouring each chapter. But then... it always happens. They become predictable. Their patterns repeat, their reactions lose their spark. And when the story's told, I put the book back on the shelf and reach for a new one.
It's not that I don't value them-so long as they're useful. In fact, I enjoy decoding their secrets, unveiling their dreams and fears, watching the puzzle pieces fall into place beneath my hands. But once the puzzle is complete, I'd rather break it apart than frame it.
That's when I disappear. Clean cut. No explanations. No goodbyes. Sometimes I say I'm going through a rough time, then let the contact quietly fade. I make sure never to leave on bad terms if I can help it-better to be a distant memory than a target of resentment.
I avoid the spotlight. Maybe the word actress fits me to some extent-but unlike most, I don't follow a script. I write my own. And the only constant in all of it... is me.
I don't expect others to understand me. I let go of that dream a long time ago-it rots quietly at the feet of the person I've built myself into. Maybe that sounds cold. But this isn't about coldness. It's about efficiency.
People cling to things long after they've lost their shine-relationships, connections, stories that have run their course. I'm different. Why hold onto an old story when I can just write a new one?
Time has proven me right. While others still mourn memories of me, I've already replaced their names and moved on. Some will wonder what they did wrong. Why I vanished. Why I never texted back. And those questions will haunt them. Some more than others.
That's my final gift. Because in a way, a part of me will stay with them-not out of love or affection, but because I touched something in them that few ever find. Something they'll never be able to let go of. A sharp sliver, buried just deep enough to keep digging over time.
But enough of that. Let's get to the story. His story. The one I'm here to tell you.