The Tyrant Behind the Smile

Before love softened the sharp edges of who I was, there existed a version of me that thrived in the shadows of emotional control. I wore charm like

armor, used words like weapons. I knew how to touch hearts without ever offering mine. I found pleasure not in connection, but in dominance -not in love, but in control.

Each teardrop I caused was a trophy. Each broken attachment, a mark of power. I didn’t touch bodies; I touched emotions -twisted them, bent them, and left before the fallout. I was aware of what I was becoming, and maybe that's what made it worse: the fact that I knew, and kept going.

But this is not just a confession. This is the begining. The beginning of how one girl her unraveled the monster I had built myself to be.

But before that, you need to meet the monster. me.

Chapter 1: The Tyrant Behind the Smile

I was a model, a student, an actor -juggling worlds where appearances mattered and emotions were tools to be wielded. I thought I had control over everything, over everyone. But then, on my birthday, something unexpected happened.

During a runway practice, I saw her.

She was there, radiant and effortless, her beauty so genuine it made my heart flutter and my knees weak. I wanted to run, to escape the flood of nervousness crashing over me. I had never felt like this before-not lust, not fleeting attraction-but something deeper, something that whispered this is real.

I knew I loved her.

Not because she was a prize or a conquest, but because for the first time, I wanted a true connection. Something honest, something that could break through the walls I’d built around myself.

I was lucky-her makeup artist was an old family friend, so my mom and I stopped by during practice. I tried so hard not to stare, but every glance at her made my heart race. After that day, she invaded my mind. I found myself scrolling through her social media, searching for any sign of who she was beyond the runway lights. Have I fallen? I asked myself.

Days passed, and I couldn’t shake her from my thoughts. I wanted to court her, to show her the parts of me I’d never revealed. But I was afraid-afraid I was the wrong man, that my darkness would only hurt her. I knew I had to change, to strip away my bad habits, my reckless pride. I had to be ready for her.

The day of the runway event came, and as usual, she was breathtaking-jawdropping in a way that made everything else fade. I made small gestures-like helping her find a seat when she complained of sore feet, exchanging shy smiles. It was the first time I felt like a gentleman, not a tyrant.

After the show, my mom said something that stayed with me: “If you ever find a girlfriend, I want her to be someone like her.”

We both won the same awards that night, and our mothers began talking like old friends, bridging a connection I hadn’t expected. I felt a strange mix of joy and fear-was I really ready to give her my heart?

I took a breath, reached for my phone, and saved her social media contact.

This was just the beginning.

I decided to make my move—quietly, carefully, through signs on social media. It felt silly at first, like a kid trying to catch someone’s attention for the very first time. But honestly? I was genuinely happy just to be talking to her, even if it was just through messages and likes.

It took some time for her to notice my little hints-but eventually, it worked. Looking back now, it’s almost funny how obvious and awkward I was. But that was me, fumbling through something real for the first time, hoping she’d see me for who I wanted to be.

Chapter 2: Falling and Breaking

This time, we really started talking. I felt like a kid again—heart pounding, always happy, like the world had suddenly made sense. But deep down, a voice in my head warned me: karma would catch up. I didn’t want to lose her. I wanted to give my best, to show her that I was the one who could be everything she needed.

I was head over heels, completely out of control. Yet my past haunted me like a shadow, whispering that I might ruin something genuine before it even began.

Our relationship started smooth—like most do. We shared our likes, our dislikes, ranted about school, and I made sure she was okay, happy at the end of each day. My intentions were clear and pure—I wanted something real, a true connection, not just a fleeting feeling.

For four months, we were happy. Really happy, especially for a talking stage. But good things don’t always last.

It began slowly—the joy and effort started to fade. Conversations grew shorter, and I noticed how she didn’t seem to want to talk as much. Everything shifted, like the energy between us changed, and it became hard for me to focus—especially with exams coming up.

I asked her to meet me at the mall. She said she wouldn’t come. Still, I told her I’d wait, whether she showed or not.

I waited until it got dark. When I saw my aunt and little cousin, I left with them, trying to ease the sadness crushing me. I just wanted to talk, to fix everything. But that night, I went to bed heartbroken.

The next day, on my way home from school, she messaged me: she’d meet me at the same place.

I rushed there, arriving first, the weight of my sorrow almost overwhelming. But then I saw her walking toward me—still beautiful, still stunning.

She apologized, saying her mind wasn’t okay. I comforted her, promising we could make it work. I wanted to prove that I could love her more than anyone else, that we could last.

For a moment, it felt like we might.

But a week later, during exam week, she messaged me again—this time to say we should stop.

I was shattered. I simply said okay and couldn’t focus. My exam scores dropped. I spent the next month crying through the nights, trying to make sense of what I lost.

After she left, the old me started creeping back in—the part of me that believed if I couldn’t be happy, no one else should be either. If you asked me now, I’d admit how messed up that was, but at the time, it felt like the only way to cope.

I turned to smoking and alcohol to numb the pain, to silence the storm inside my head. I wanted to reach out to her, to message her, but I couldn’t. I was trapped in confusion, stuck asking myself the same questions over and over:

Where did I go wrong? Was it my fault? Am I really that hard to love?

The pain of not knowing why she left without explanation was like a knife twisting deeper every day.

What was the point of everything if I didn’t matter to her? How could she just disappear without giving me a chance to understand?

Those thoughts haunted me, and the darkness pulled me under, threatening to swallow me whole.