Beneath the Mask

I arrived cloaked in charm, a mystery wrapped in a smile, with eyes that sparkled with promises of things I never intended to deliver. She was drawn to me, like a moth to a flame, captivated by the perfect partner I pretended to be. It was all part of the act —an unspoken script, one I’d crafted to perfection, a language I had mastered even if I never truly understood it. I embodied the role —a man of calm and discipline, projecting an image of softness, all while concealing the darkness beneath. At first, she was mesmerised, intoxicated by my rigid ways. A perfectionist, she saw in me the very structure she craved. She mistook my control for strength, my silence for wisdom. But all along, I was building a cage of shadows, trapping her in illusions.

I thrived on discipline. In my eyes, order was everything. Control was the foundation upon which I built my world. She was supposed to fall in line and to bend to my structure. Any spark of freedom, any flicker of unpredictability —it threatened everything I’d carefully constructed. And so, with every step she took toward independence, I was there, pushing her back into her place. My restraint wasn’t meant to nurture or guide; it was meant to suppress, to keep her small, to silence any voice that dared to question my world. I had to ensure she understood: she existed only in the space I allowed.

Dancing with her had once thrilled me, the way I could lead, control the rhythm, dictate the steps. I’d pull her close, then pull her deeper into my world of rigid routines and deadpan humour. My laughter was rare, but the smirk never left. I watched her, constantly, her every move, her every breath. And when she showed weakness, it was almost too easy, I’d give her that look —the one that said everything she feared about herself. Her vulnerability became a mockery that I made sure she felt, over and over again.

It corroded her slowly; I could see it. Each time, a piece of her self-assurance cracked, and I loved it. She began questioning herself, doubting her worth, and in that, I found power. She thought she needed me, but really, it was I who controlled her, made her believe she was less than she was. It was all a game.

My life? It’s a closed circle, and that’s how I like it. The people around me, they’re nothing more than distractions. They don’t challenge me, and that’s exactly why they’re here. They’re talkative, low-maintenance, and always ready to laugh at my jokes. They’re entertained by my humour, my talk about cars, or my rants about rap, but none of them ever try to dig any deeper. They don’t know the real me —they don’t even want to. They ask for nothing, and I give them nothing.

Yet, in the depths of her sorrow, a quiet strength began to emerge. It was faint at first, but she felt it growing, pushing against the suffocating darkness. She had to save herself.

The journey was slow and painful, but she managed to reach the shores of the Andaman Sea, where she found solace among mangroves. These past three months have been a rebirth. She walks slowly, learns to breathe again, to feel the earth beneath her. She found her own voice, softer and stronger, and the birds'.

In the silence of my despair, something inside me began to stir. I realised, looking back at him, that I had confused familiarity with attachment. I had clung to him as though his presence was the only thing keeping me whole, yet all along, I was shrinking. His cruelty, his indifference, his constant mockery had slowly suffocated me. There were no true moments of intimacy. Even in his best moods, he was never really there, his gaze distant, his thoughts miles away from anything that could have been called love.

At his worst, he would punish me for the smallest of perceived faults. "Look at you," he’d say with that smug smile. "You hide yourself from everyone. This is the real you —a fighter, always fighting with yourself and everyone else." In his eyes, I saw nothing but contempt. There was no softness, no empathy, only a cold, hard mask of superiority. I saw his heart locked away behind walls of ego and cynicism. I saw that he was incapable of loving.

For so long, I tried to prove myself to him, hoping that one day, if I was worthy enough, he would see me, appreciate me. But all I had done was feed the snake of my own self-doubt. Slowly, he isolated me from myself, from my own desires, my own life. I began to believe that I was the flawed one, the one who should be grateful he stayed. But deep down, I knew I was drowning. I saw the world in shades of gray, with no way out.

I saw his black heart, a void where empathy should have been, a shadow that deepened every time I tried to reach him. I remember one night, when I was at my lowest, tears streaming down my face. I hoped for a glimmer of kindness, a soft word, an understanding hand. Instead, he scoffed, his face twisted in disdain.

"Look at you," he sneered. "Crying over nothing. Look at that face. This is who you really are —a mess."

I left him because I saw the fire in his eyes, that could consume me if I stayed. That realisation struck me months before I walked away, and once it took root, there was no turning back. I finally remember that true love feels like home, not a prison.

So, I’ve let him go.