💥 He painted me as the villain, twisting every memory, every disagreement into a tale of my supposed wickedness. It was easier for him, I suppose, to cast me as the monster than to face his own shortcomings. I felt a cold rage build inside me as I listened to his twisted narratives. This story he told wasn't about me. It was a desperate attempt to deflect, to avoid responsibility for his own actions. The realization was liberating. He wasn't evil, he was just afraid. Afraid of the truth, afraid