I don't know when I stopped being a person and became a mirror.

At the beginning, he made me feel like I was the most important thing in his world. He texted constantly, called mid day just to hear my voice, showed up with sweet treats on random Tuesdays. He called me ethereal not just beautiful, different from everyone else he'd ever known. When I spoke, he listened so intently it felt like the world stopped. I felt seen.

I was so grateful to be seen.

I think that's the part I'm still trying to understand. How the same eyes that made me feel like I mattered became the ones that made me feel like I wasn't enough. How the attention transformed into something else entirely.

There was a shift.

The first time he got angry at me, it caught me off guard. We'd made plans to go to his friend's party, and I'd mentioned I was tired from house chores, that I was thinking maybe we could do something low-key instead. Nothing demanding. Just an honest thought.

His face changed.

"So what, you don't want to be seen with my friends?" he said.

"That's not what I…"

"You always do this," he interrupted. "You make everything about yourself. I do everything for you, and you can't even show up for one night."

I tried to explain. I just wanted a quiet evening, and suddenly I became the villain of my own words. My tiredness became selfishness. My need became a personal rejection of him.

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I apologized. It felt easier than defending myself.

After that, I became very aware of the rules. Not written rules he would always deny there were any rules if I'd asked. But I could feel them like landmines in a field I had to navigate.

Don't bring up your own problems. If I mentioned something stressful at work, he would find a way to relate it back to something that had hurt him, and dismiss my feelings. Suddenly my problem became secondary and his pain became the focus. I learned to listen instead of speak. Listening was safe.

Don't question his stories. If I asked any questions about his ex, he would find a way to divert from the conversation. I learned not to ask for clarification. Questions meant I didn't trust him. Distrust meant I was causing him pain.

Don't have needs that conflict with his. If he wanted to come over when I'd planned something with friends, my plans should shift. If he wanted to talk when I was trying to sleep, I should wake up. My time was flexible; his was fixed and important. Even after he would text me late at night.

Don't point out these patterns. Doing so meant I was criticizing him, which meant I didn't love him, which meant I was hurting him.

I became very, very good at contorting myself. I learnt how to hold back, the hard way.

The strange thing is, I loved him. I think I still do, actually, which is maybe the most confusing part of all this.

I loved the version of him that existed in that first month. Or maybe I loved the idea that that version was real, that it was possible for him to see me the way he claimed to see me. But I also loved him enough to accept the explanation when that version disappeared: that *I* had changed him. That my tiredness, my selective selfishness, my normal human limitations had worn away the best parts of him.

He said it like it was simple: "You did this to me." Also said admitted that he has changed that this isnt how he used to be.

And I believed him because it seemed easier to believe that I had the power to fix it, if only I tried harder, understood better, sacrificed more.

I started monitoring my own behavior obsessively. Before I spoke, I'd run through the sentence in my head: Would this hurt him? Would he interpret this as criticism? Would he feel attacked? I became, very careful. I became someone who existed primarily in service of not upsetting him.

Sometimes he'd be distant without explanation, and I'd spend hours going over our recent interactions, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. The guilt was paralyzing. I'd apologize for things I wasn't even sure I'd done, just to try to get back to the version of him that was kind.

And sometimes not always, but sometimes, my apologies would work. He'd soften, and we'd have these brief conversations where things felt normal again. Where I felt like maybe, finally, I'd learned the right way to love him.

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Those windows were worse than the distance, actually. They made me believe if I spoke less, we would be fine and I won’t upset him.

Here's what I couldn't articulate for a long time: the problem wasn't my inadequacy. The problem was that nothing I did would ever be enough because he wasn't actually looking at me. He was looking at the image he needed me to be, and I could never be that image perfectly because the image wasn't real.

I don't think he was doing it consciously. I don't think he woke up and decided to play mind games. I think he genuinely believed that his needs were more urgent, more real, more valid than mine. I think the way he saw the world where he was the central character and everyone else was supporting cast was so normal to him that he couldn't imagine experiencing relationships any other way.

But conscious or not, the effect was the same. I was disappearing.

I don't know what woke me up, exactly. There wasn't a dramatic moment, a sudden revelation. It was more like a slow accumulation of small recognitions. The way he could hurt me and feel no remorse. The way he could tell me I was overreacting even when I was barely holding it together. The way he could say he loved me while systematically treating my love as if it wasn't worth protecting.

One day I realized I couldn't remember the last time he'd asked how I was feeling. Not as a conversation starter, but as a genuine question he actually wanted answered. And I realized that I'd stopped expecting him to ask.

That's when I knew.

I'm still untangling myself. I still feel guilty for having needs. I still catch myself apologizing for things that aren't my fault.

But I'm beginning to understand something: his inability to see me isn't a reflection of my visibility. His need to remake me into a fantasy isn't a reflection of my worth. The fact that I wasn't enough wasn't about the size of my love it was that he was never actually looking at love. He was looking for worship.

And I'm not built for worship. I'm just built for loving, which turns out to be something entirely different.

It turns out that loving someone and protecting yourself from them are sometimes the same thing.

I don't know if I'll ever fully stop loving him. But I'm learning to love myself with something like the intensity I gave to him. And that might be the only way I survive this not by completely cutting him out of my heart, but by finally, finally putting myself back in it.

By becoming a person again instead of a mirror.

By accepting that if he can't see me, that's his loss, not my failure.

This essay discusses sexual harassment, predatory behavior by older men, and coercion. Readers who’ve experienced something similar deserve to know what they’re walking into.

The way he stared at my lips made me uncomfortable. His wandering eyes tracing every inch of my face and body before he asked me “are you a virgin?”

And I realized “this wasn’t the first time or the last.” After every conversation with them I’d get told, “you’re so mature for your age”

I started to feel like I was the problem. It made me think i give off “hook-up” looks or that I looked cheap and easy.

Somewhere between the compliments and stares, i started to believe it was my fault.

My friend and I could both talk to the same person and only me would get hit on.

This pattern cost me my freedom; i had to hide my face in class, avoid getting spotted, the academic threat terrified me greatly. I had to speak up at some point because for some reason this said man wasn’t backing down easily. I had to speak to my parent.

That was when I realized something. Their compliments about my body; no matter how nice made me feel naked and bare. Like that was the only thing they thought about me. But I am more than my body. I am more than my just my outer appearance. I have a mind. I have dreams. I have value that has nothing to do with my body.

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So, this essay is directed to the girls who think they’re the problem.

You are beautiful. You are smart. And you are free to express yourself without holding back.

You dont have to shrink yourself because a man cannot control his sexual desires.

You’re going to stop apologizing for your body, your intelligence, and your presence.

You’re not the one who needs to disappear, neither am I.

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If you’ve made it this far thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work:)

For the longest time, I confused potential with promise.

THE ROMANTIC VERSION

The Vision I Built

The future I imagined with him was one where he was more inquisitive about what I love. A world where he didn't need to hide me.

Waking up beside each other. Him pointing out something off about my hair or dress because he wants me to be nearly "perfect." Him being protective in a healthy way and treating me like I'm actually his baby.

How I Knew

I realized something was off when he stopped calling me sweet names.

He stopped telling me he loves me—it was literally the biggest indicator. Calls reduced. No check-ups during the day. He used to be so involved in my life. Seeing me became a big deal. We rarely met when we were apart, and the craziest part is that we stayed in the same state.

The Breaking Point

There was a time I suggested going to his work place the next day. The day came and he didn't mention it or tell me he was free, that I could come.

That was it. That was the pattern.

The Repetition

Me always asking for him to text me and keep me in the loop. Me crying. Me writing long epistles. Me speaking up.

And nothing changed.

The Painful Archaeology

I went back to the old chats—the ones from before I became his girlfriend. He was so sweet.

The feeling of happiness you get when you're so excited seeing their text. I was looking for some sort of closure, trying to remind myself that the person I knew was still in there. I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn't making up things in my mind.

When I read them, I felt so many emotions.

The first feeling was relief that I wasn't crazy.

The second feeling was disappointment. How can a person who was so sweet to me feel so distant now?

The Truth

I realized: he was showing me who he was. And I kept waiting for him to become who I needed him to be.

Despite how many times I cried, despite the long epistles, despite speaking up—no change. That's when I finally saw it clearly.

THE FRIENDSHIP VERSION

What I Believed In

We were a group of 5. Not my typical friend dynamic—I'm used to having just 2 or 3—but 5? A little too much for me. But I was cool with it.

I was closer to this one girl in the group. She matched my vibe and was literally so fun to be with. Knowing myself, it would always show that I was closer to her because we just clicked.

I genuinely invested in who I thought they were. Not the potential version. The actual people.

The Warning Sign

I saw how they'd always fight. One person would stop talking to the other person, and the rest would automatically follow and stop talking to whoever had offended. That should have been my cue to stand back.

But I didn't. Not until it was my turn to get accused.

The Story They Wrote

The narrative they created about me was that I was not to be trusted around their significant other.

Deep down I felt they were either threatened or envious.

How I Found Out

There was a shift in their energy towards me. The instant switch was crazy.

I learned what they said about me from a mutual person—wouldn't really call him a friend, but he was the reason for the change. Although I don't really know what he said when they asked him about my relationship with him. That's a loop I'll never get to know. Considering I no longer speak to all of them.

The Real Wound

They didn't wait to hear my side of the story.

They took what they heard and believed it. One would think since we are friends, they would want to hear from me. But they never reached out. And I cut them off almost instantly because you're taking someone's word over mine. They didn't even wait to hear my story.

The Different Kind of Pain

I felt bad that the people I regarded as friends would behave towards me that way.

They never regarded me as a friend. Not really. And that was what stung the most. I just wanted people i could call my own.

I was already written. Fixed. Defined. Not by my own actions, but by someone else's interpretation of them.

What It Taught Me

This experience taught me not to rush into a friendship anymore. And that I don't need to force myself to fit in.

One grief was about lost potential. This one was about never being seen at all.

WHAT ID TELL SOMEONE ELSE

~My intentions were pure from the start.

Not perfect. Not flawless. But pure. I loved them. I invested with an open heart.

Once people show you who they are believe them.

Not after the third time. Not after you’ve tried everything. The first time. After the misunderstanding. After the argument. After the pattern repeats itself. Because disrespect will repeat. It’ll only wear different clothes. Same absence, different rooms. Same apologies, different timing.

And don’t accept disrespect because you want to be loved. That’s a trade that’ll cost you everything. If someone won’t show up, won’t plan, won’t listen, won’t see you—thats them telling you who exactly who they are.

Believe them the first time.

The grief is real. The loss is real. But I am not grieving potential anymore.

I am choosing reality