You treat them like they matter, not because they’re impressive, but because they’re human. And strangely, that unsettles them more than worship ever could. You give them the one thing they can’t fake or fabricate: a feeling of being seen as unique without needing to perform. It feeds a hunger in them they won’t name—not out loud, but deep down they feel it. That flicker of worth is not rooted in power or applause, but in the reflection they see in your eyes when they’re not trying to be anyone.
It becomes addictive—not because it’s love in the way most understand it, but because it’s rare. You’ve become a mirror that doesn’t lie, and for someone who’s built a whole world on illusion, that kind of clarity is disarming.
You see, narcissists wrap themselves in armor—thick, glinting, impenetrable—but they’re not protecting a kingdom; they’re guarding a wound. When you come along, not to conquer, not to flatter, but just to be, that wound gets exposed—not ripped open, but revealed. And that, my friend, is where things start to change.
Now, here’s what really stuns them: strength—not the loud kind, not dominance or retaliation, but that deep, anchored kind. The kind that stands in the storm without blinking. You don’t flinch when they lash out; you don’t crumble when they go silent. You hold the line—not for power, but because you know who you are. And that—that breaks their script.
See, the narcissist is used to spinning the world around their pain, but you—you don’t get pulled in. You stay true, calm, clear, unmoved by manipulation, unchanged by charm. For the first time, the narcissist feels outmatched—not in a fight, but in presence. They realize you won’t beg, you won’t bend, and you won’t become small just to keep the peace. Oddly enough, instead of rejecting you, they draw closer, because what you offer is rare. You become the emotional anchor they never knew they needed but now can’t imagine living without.
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