A certain someone once said to me, “You’re ugly. Unpleasant.” I felt the sting, yes, but I also felt the absurdity of it. Out of rage, maybe, or perhaps out of his own anger, he flung words as though they could wound me. “I will make your life a living hell,” he said, as if threats could ever touch the core of who I am. And yet, he believed I was lying when I told him that I would endure, that I would rise above his attempts at control.

He called me the devil. I smiled, leaned in, and whispered in a voice that carried both amusement and warning: “Oh? Only now do you take notice? When I have long been the storm’s whisper, a fire untamed, a shadow unfazed, a reckoning etched in time.” I watched him falter, if only slightly, as my calm revealed the truth he had refused to see.

You said I had feelings for him. Really? That, too, was your misinterpretation, your attempt to reduce me to something simple, something manageable. But I have never been simple. I have never been meant to fit neatly into the boxes people carve for one another.

“You’re lucky, you know,” I said at some point, as if he should be grateful for my recognition. “Because I never once realized there was anything to know.” Lucky? The irony of my statement made him laugh quietly, because he had always known—always understood—while I remained blind.

He said he hates me. Oh? Let him. His hatred, his scorn, his fury—they are his own burdens to carry, not mine. I am not responsible for the emotions of those who cannot comprehend strength. The sun does not dim for those who curse its light, and neither shall I.

I was not born to be pleasing. I was not crafted for admiration. I was not shaped by fragile hands, nor built to bend beneath the expectations of anyone who tries to define me. My existence is not negotiable. My presence is not up for debate. I am unwavering.

Let him seethe. Let him scorn. Let him believe he has power over me. It does not matter. He cannot touch the essence of who I am. I am fire. I am shadow. I am the reckoning he failed to anticipate.

He said I was crazy. Oh, really? That is nothing new. That is a word too small to encompass the scope of my mind, the breadth of my independence. Why did it take him this long to realize? What a shame for him.

He thought he could manipulate me. He thought he could bend me with lies, with whispers, with half-truths designed to destabilize. He forgot one essential fact: I can gaslight in return. I can turn his own tricks against him, and I do not require malice to do it.

He lived his life thinking he was the predator, the one in control, the one who could orchestrate fear. He forgot, in all his arrogance, that I am the big bad Wolfie. I am not tamed, not broken, not waiting to be saved or understood.

I am the storm he refused to acknowledge. I am the shadow that lingers after the fire. I am the reckoning that arrives when least expected. And I will not apologize for it. I will not dim my light for those who cannot bear to witness it.

He may call me names. He may curse, he may plot, he may seethe with hatred and resentment. It matters not. Each word he throws becomes evidence of his weakness, of his inability to see beyond his own ego.

I do not exist to be liked. I do not exist to be feared. I exist to endure, to rise, to stand unmoved while the world shakes around me. I am the force that cannot be commanded, cannot be tamed.

And when he finally realizes the scope of what he has underestimated, it will be too late. He will remember the devil he claimed to see, the storm he thought he could ignore, the Wolfie he assumed could be contained.

I am not sorry. I am not broken. I am not waiting for redemption from anyone who cannot comprehend my fire. Let him rage, let him hate, let him misunderstand. I am the reckoning, the shadow, the storm—and he has only just glimpsed the beginning.