Funny how we always assume we’re the protagonist in our own story. Every moment, every setback, every victory, we center ourselves like the main character in a grand narrative. It’s natural, I guess. It helps us make sense of the chaos. But lately, I’ve been grappling with a twist I didn’t see coming: what if I’m not the hero in someone else’s version of this tale?
Worse, what if I’m the antagonist?
There’s someone in my life, or maybe no longer in my life, who hurt me deeply. In my story, they’re the villain. The plot-thickener. The one who triggered a season of grief, reflection, and growth. But here’s the part that stings: while I’m still processing, replaying scenes, trying to rewrite meaning into every line… I have a feeling they’re out there living their best life.
Smiling. Moving on. Maybe even thriving.
Sometimes I wonder: if they were writing this chapter, what would my character be called? A lesson? A mistake? A shadow in the background? What role do I play in their story? Am I a bad memory? A joke? Just someone who showed up and left? Or worse… would I even be in the book?
But maybe that’s just how life works. We’re all writing our own story, and sometimes we’re the hero. Other times, we’re the villain. And a lot of the time, we’re just background characters in someone else’s scene. And somehow, that has to be enough.
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