He talked of love like the poet’s talk of the moon, soft, glowing, and beyond questioning.

He had a way with words. With everyone.

When he said, You are different, I would feel special.

And then I saw that he meant that to all the girls who trusted him.

He would discuss love and devotion as he had coined them. God swore him, and he pledged faithfulness, and painted dreams, so pretty that I had no scruples about going into them. However, when a man tells everyone to love, he does not know what love is.

And he was a performer.

My friends warned me. They said, “He has many faces.”

I laughed. I thought they just didn’t know him the way I did.

But they were right.

To the world, he was charming. To other girls, he was attentive. To me, he was both heaven and heartbreak — depending on the day. I later discovered I wasn’t the only one receiving late-night confessions and stolen compliments. His words weren’t rare. They were recycled.

He worshipped beauty, but he never valued loyalty.

He admired attention, but he couldn’t give respect.

I remember the day I found out. My hands were shaking, but not because I was surprised — deep down, I had always known. It was in the way he avoided eye contact when I asked simple questions. In the way he turned every doubt into my insecurity. In the way he hugged me close but stabbed me in the back with lies.

He broke my trust so quietly that I didn’t even hear it shatter.

I loved him blindly. I defended him. I burned in the fire of that love while he entertained himself with new admirers. And the worst part? He knew I would forgive him. He knew I loved him enough to stay.

That was his power.

He made me feel alive once. Then slowly, he made me feel like a ghost in my own relationship. I smiled in public while dying inside. The man who once felt like the reason I breathed became the reason I struggled to.

Yesterday, he was the purpose of my life.

Today, he feels responsible for the death of the girl I used to be.

But here’s what he never understood:

I may have loved deeply, but I am not weak.

I may have trusted blindly, but I can see clearly now.

He can keep his many faces.

I’m choosing to keep my dignity.

And one day, when he speaks about love again, someone else will believe him.

But it will never be me.

 

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