Plot twist: I dodged a therapy bill.
He showed up like a quote from a self-help influencer with a podcast no one asked for.
Said all the right things.
Spoke fluent Buzzword.
Dropped phrases like “safe space” and “emotional availability” like he majored in vulnerability with a minor in future f*ckery.
“I’ve never met someone like you,”
he said, eyes twinkling with pre-scripted sincerity.
And he hadn’t.
Because most people don’t trauma-bond over iced coffee and send you 47 voice notes before lunch.
I should’ve known.
There were red flags.
So many red flags.
It looked like the finish line at a narcissist marathon.
But what did I bring?
Balloons.
Big, helium hope-bags tied to every past abandonment wound I still hadn’t patched.
Because when your childhood calls chaos “connection,”
love bombing doesn’t feel like manipulation—
it feels like finally being seen.
He called me “brilliant.”
Said I was “his person.”
Told me I was “the calm in his storm.”
(Meanwhile I was out here checking tornado warnings every morning.)
And then?
Poof.
Gone.
Mid-sentence.
Mid-spiral.
Mid-voice memo where I said, “Just checking in…”
Left on read like I was the warranty on his emotional vacuum cleaner—
expired, unnecessary, and no longer his responsibility.
And what did I do?
Blamed. Myself.
For being too open.
Too intense.
Too f*cking real for someone who thought depth was a kink, not a commitment.
But now?
Now I don’t confuse chemistry with clarity.
I don’t mistake flattery for a future.
I don’t audition for roles in someone else’s unmade rom-com.
When I see red flags?
I don’t bring balloons.
I bring scissors.
And a contract.
And a goat that headbutts bullsh*t on sight.
Because I’m not here for half-truths, half-effort, or half-grown humans in love guru drag.
I was never too much.
I was just too accurate for someone who wanted the idea of me—
but not the real, unedited version who keeps receipts and reads attachment theory for fun.
So go ahead.
Leave me on read.
I’ll be over here—
loving louder, healing harder,
and building an entire fcking brand*
out of the messages you stopped replying to.
Love-Bombed and Left on Read
He texted hearts, then disappeared,
My gut said no, but hope still cheered.
He love-bombed quick, then vanished bold,
Left me ghosted, hot, and cold.
But now I bomb with self-respect,
No breadcrumbs left, no tears to collect.
I read myself a bedtime tale,
And kissed his ghost goodbye—no bail.
—The Funny Phoenix, nuking narcissists on sight
