A soul as hollow as….
I have never encountered a soul as hollow as his, a canvas devoid of color, all shades drained to grey.
He moves through the world without weight, unanchored by accountability, untethered by regret, unable to see the trail of his own undoing.
He stumbles over the threads of emotion, failing to weave them into meaning, a mind so flat and shallow, yet dressed in the arrogance of presumption.
“You must have masochistic tendencies,” he said, as if my pain were self-inflicted, as if his own hand hadn’t carved the scars. A cruel jest from a man blind to his own role, blind to the push and pull that tied me to him.
To him, fault is an unbearable weight — never his to carry. With deft subtlety, he bends reality, shifting blame like shadows caught in the fading sun. The women who wander into his orbit begin as light, bright and whole, their spirits steady and sure. But over time, he unravels them quietly, thread by thread.
He does not break them with force, but with whispers, doubts sewn into silence, insecurities painted as truth.
In his presence, you do not stumble; you dissolve. What once glowed with warmth fades to embers, and you no longer know where your reflection ends and his darkness begins. Like a thief in the night, he takes not what you offer freely, but what you don’t realize you’re losing — your confidence, your joy, your sense of self.
I tried, time and time again, to offer clarity, to illuminate the shadows, to show him the threads that connected his actions to my hurt. But the light never reached him; he stood untouched. His heart walled off by indifference, his gaze fixed inward, blind to the ripples he created.
Empathy eludes him like a distant shore, and his words, sharp yet hollow, fall carelessly, scattering without care or consequence. Once, he and I believed he could change, that there was something beneath the surface waiting to bloom.
But now, I see it clearly: there is no seed, no soil, no spark.
Only an endless, colorless expanse I will no longer cross.
— Lux
