Masks and Mirrors

She said I saw through her mask. I didn't even know she was wearing one.

How It Started

I met her through a dating app. Something about her seemed familiar right away. A few messages later, it clicked and childhood memories resurfaced. We'd crossed paths years ago. That old familiarity quickly turned into a fresh spark. We clicked. Instantly.

Dates flowed naturally: movies, coffee, hikes out of town. Her texts became constant, and with it, the attention became addictive. Photos evolved rapidly into short films starring her. She wanted my eyes, my validation, my attention. She was all in. So I thought.

The First Crack

Weeks felt like months. The intensity was electric, but increasingly dramatic. Conversations swung wildly from fascinating to exhausting. She showered me with admiration, praising me for ordinary things. Apparently, being able to crash on a couch after a party was a remarkable trait. I sensed the backhand in this but he stayed true to her narrative.

She did describe herself openly as troubled, but it was something I initially brushed off as endearing vulnerability. She even drew me a chart to explain her complexities. Helpful, I guess?

But admiration soon twisted into criticism, slipping out unexpectedly. Xmas morning, while she worked through the holiday, I sent a simple, “Good morning.” Her reply was an itemised critique - from my shoes to my cologne. My entire style dissected and apparently not up to standards. It felt less like holiday stress and more like a carefully prepared roast. I laughed, winced, and realised maybe the trouble ran deeper than I'd understood.

What Followed

We met a few days later at her place. She was visibly tense, eyes heavy with something she'd held back. When she finally spoke, it poured out: therapy sessions, medication, a history she’d kept hidden beneath charming smiles and playful texts. Her trouble had layers I hadn't imagined. Her Xmas morning criticism? Sometimes she just “had to do it to stir up the connection”. I reached out instinctively to comfort her, but she recoiled.

“Never hug me in moments like this,” she snapped.

So I didn’t.

We were silent. I stood there, uncertain how to proceed. Eventually, I excused myself, slowly backing away from complexities I wasn't equipped to handle. Still, we continued meeting briefly. I guess I felt guilty for not staying longer.

Conversations turned surreal - talks of curses, personal demons, invisible chains. The coffee shop became our stage for these emotional monologues. Leaving one evening, she broke down completely. Tears streamed as she confessed:

“You’re the healthiest person I’ve ever met. You see right through my mask. And it terrifies me. You don’t deserve such a person.”

She clung to me tightly, yet her words kept pushing me away.

I stood frozen, caught between compassion and confusion. Before I could respond, she stepped back.

“You're like Buddha compared to me - grounded, calm, in control” she said, her voice trembling. But as she shut the door between us, I didn't feel enlightened. Just heavy.

Note to Self

Turns out being someone's "Buddha" isn't always peaceful. Sometimes, it's just the calm before the emotional storm. Enlightenment sounds nice, until you realise you're meditating through someone else's meltdown.

Admiration can mask deeper turmoil. Being someone's anchor feels flattering, until the weight becomes too heavy. When drama transforms intimacy into therapy, stepping back isn't selfish, it's self-preservation. Know the difference between supporting someone and becoming their emotional lifeline.