Masculine ,matured

He is a narcissist

I still remember the way his laughter filled the room — like sunlight slipping through curtains on a lazy Sunday morning. His name was Tobi, and I met him when I wasn’t even looking for love. I was just trying to find myself. We met at a friend's birthday party. I had almost skipped it. I wasn’t in the mood for noise or strangers, but something nudged me to go. And there he was — in a wine-colored shirt that matched the rhythm of his voice. He said hello like he already knew me. Somehow, I felt like he did. We started talking — and didn’t stop. That night turned into calls at midnight, long walks after work, and shared plates of suya at the roadside. He listened to me, not just the words I said, but the silence in between. He would hold my hand when the world got too loud, and tell me I was safe. For a while, I believed him. But love, no matter how deep, sometimes isn’t enough. It started small — canceled plans, unread messages, excuses wrapped in kindness. I convinced myself he was just tired, overwhelmed, busy. But deep down, I could feel it — the slow unraveling. Love doesn’t always end with a fight. Sometimes, it leaves quietly. The last time we spoke, he hugged me like he was saying goodbye. I didn’t ask him to stay. Maybe I should have. But I had learned not to beg for someone to choose me. Not again. I cried for days. Not because he left, but because of how beautiful it was while it lasted. He taught me that I could be loved deeply. And when he left, I taught myself that I could survive. Now, when I walk past that suya spot or hear someone laugh like he did, I smile — not because I miss him, but because I’m thankful. He was a chapter. A warm, unforgettable one. But just a chapter. And I’m still writing my story.