But here’s the catch: easy fuel runs out fast. Where you gave them challenge and strength, this new supply offers only admiration. And admiration without resistance grows stale. It’s like trying to live on candy—it tastes sweet for a moment but leaves the stomach aching for real nourishment. Psychology calls this a lack of object constancy. I call it a void that can’t be filled. They can only value you when you’re right in front of them feeding their need. The moment you stop, they devalue you, not because you lost your worth, but because they never learned how to hold on to love. They never learned how to remember care when it’s not constantly poured out.
So don’t fall into their trap. Don’t envy the one they chose after you. That new supply isn’t a prize; it’s a placeholder, a temporary patch on a wound that never heals. There’s a truth about the narcissist that few are willing to face: they live in a state of endless hunger. It’s like trying to fill a bucket riddled with holes. No matter how much you pour in—adoration, applause, affection—it all leaks out. Nothing holds. Nothing satisfies.
That’s why you see the parade online: the curated photos, the glowing captions, the smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes. It’s not joy; it’s optics— a stage performance crafted to convince the world and to convince themselves that they won. But deep behind that spotlight, the stage is empty. The applause fades, and all that’s left is boredom, irritation, restlessness. Because what they chose was never about love; it was about control.
You, on the other hand, weren’t just another chapter. You were substance. You were strength. You were a high-octane supply they couldn’t replicate. They drew not just admiration from you, but the rush of conquering your boundaries—the power of bending your emotions. With a new supply, all they get is shallow praise. And shallow praise runs dry quickly. Suddenly, the deal they thought was brilliant looks like a bargain gone bad.
But don’t mistake this moment for humility. This is not repentance; it’s rage mixed with self-pity. They stare at the wreckage of their choices yet still point fingers everywhere but inward. This is a paradox that defines them: architects of their own ruin who somehow believe themselves to be the victims of it. Here’s something deeper: yes, even a narcissist can bond. But it’s not the bond of love; it’s the grip of ownership. It’s trauma masquerading as intimacy. They mock others for being needy, yet they’re the most codependent of all—tethered to supply like a drowning man to a raft.
And with you, it was different. You carried a unique energy, a high-grade light they couldn’t find anywhere else. When they lost you, they lost more than a partner; they lost a piece of themselves. And though they try to patch it with someone new, the absence gnaws at them like a phantom limb. Their mind whispers lies to itself: if I look happy enough, if I shine bright enough, no one will know I’m suffering. They chase the illusion that appearances can cover emptiness. But God himself knows the truth: their joy is a mask; their laughter is hollow.
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