Reflections in the Dark

I have always been drawn to them—these radiant creatures who walk through life as if the world were made for them, as if every moment were merely a stage upon which they could enact their endless spectacle. I watch them, fascinated, repulsed, envious.

They are everything I wish to be but cannot.

How effortlessly they take! How shamelessly they demand! When they speak, the world listens. When they enter a room, space itself seems to contract around them, as if drawn to their gravity. I stand in the periphery, studying them, longing for even a fraction of their ease.

It is not love. No, it is something far uglier—some sick compulsion, a need to orbit them, to bask in the glow of their self-importance. They are so sure of themselves, so firm in their convictions, while I wither in the prison of my own self-doubt, forever calculating, forever anticipating unseen consequences. I watch them lie and be believed, wound and be adored, fail and be excused.

I loathe them.

And yet, I seek them out. Again and again.

The last one was no different. He strode into my life like a conqueror, full of grand proclamations, empty promises, and a smile so sharp it could cut through steel. I knew from the beginning. I always know. But knowing has never stopped me.

"You're different," he said once, looking at me the way one looks at an unusual specimen—half amusement, half intrigue. "You're quiet, but there's something there. You're watching, aren’t you?"

Yes, I was watching. I always watch.

I let him believe he had me, that I was transfixed, ensnared in his charm. I played my role well—the careful admirer, the one who listened, who reflected his own brilliance back at him. And yet, beneath it all, I seethed with quiet resentment.

Why should he have it all? The certainty, the arrogance, the blind faith in his own importance? Why does he get to live in the sun while I skulk in the shade? He is nothing without the audience, and yet he moves through life as though the applause will never stop.

It is obscene.

And yet, I am here, still orbiting, still feeding his fire even as I burn in the cold.

Perhaps I only exist in relation to them—these gaudy, preening gods of self-worship. Perhaps without them, I would vanish altogether. Or worse, be seen for what I truly am: a reflection, a shadow, a thing that exists only by contrast.

But sometimes, in the dead of night, when I lie awake replaying every word, every glance, every game played and lost, a terrible thought takes root.

What if I do not truly hate them?

What if, deep down, I only hate myself?

And what if I am drawn to them not because they are repulsive—but because they are free?

Wouldn't that be the cruelest irony of all?