You Broke Up With a Narcissist. Apparently, His Majesty Missed the Announcement

Breaking up with a narcissist has one particularly strange feature: you think you have ended a relationship, while he may believe you have staged a small rebellion in his kingdom.

These are not quite the same event.

You thought the conversation was fairly clear. Things are over, everyone now returns to civilian life, and although there may be sadness, several unnecessarily emotional songs and a brief period in which couples choosing avocados together seem offensively cheerful, eventually the world resumes.

He, however, may be receiving entirely different news.

The queen has left the palace without permission, and naturally this requires attention.

The Queen Has Left the Palace

At first, there may be silence. Sometimes impressive silence, long enough to make you think perhaps he has accepted that the relationship is over and is quietly getting on with his life.

This is encouraging.

It may also be temporary.

Soon enough, a message arrives: “I’ve been thinking about us.”

Of course he has. The queen has left the palace without notice, and apparently the matter is not considered settled.

Suddenly the man who once treated your feelings as an optional garnish becomes extremely interested in discussing them. There may be long messages explaining what happened, what he meant, what you misunderstood and why, and making it all look like the entire relationship was apparently much more extraordinary than it seemed while you were actually living in it.

Where were these paragraphs in April?

There may even be apologies, although some are rather inventive. “I’m sorry you felt that way” sounds promising until you notice that nothing in it actually admits he did anything wrong. Other apologies begin with what he did and, through an impressive series of turns, somehow end with what you did.

By the end of it, you are almost wondering whether you should apologize to him. (Small eye roll.)

The Kingdom Responds

If apologies do not reopen the gates, the charm may come out.

Nobody understood him the way you did. What you had was rare. Remember that trip, that restaurant, that ridiculous thing you used to laugh about?

The palace musicians have clearly been summoned.

For a moment he may sound so much like the man from the beginning that you wonder whether the entire middle of the relationship was some unfortunate misunderstanding involving paperwork.

This is where memory becomes wonderfully unhelpful. It remembers the first six weeks wearing perfume, while the exhaustion has apparently gone out for lunch.

So you can find yourself standing outside a kingdom you deliberately left and thinking, Well, the gardens were lovely.

They were. There was also a dungeon.

Both things can be true.

And if charm fails, history may suddenly become flexible. Actually, he was the unhappy one. Actually, you were impossible to please. Something he did in June may return in September as something you caused, while facts begin wandering around the palace wearing different hats.

The royal historian is extremely busy.

Then, just when you think the kingdom has exhausted its entire collection of ways to lure you back, a perfectly innocent little message arrives.

“Hope you’re doing well.”

Such a sweet sentence. Polite, harmless, practically carrying flowers.

Perhaps he has even found something of yours—a mug, a book, one lonely earring whose importance has suddenly risen to matters of state. Three months ago he could not remember an important conversation; today he is curator of the National Museum of Your Belongings.

The mug, naturally, is not the point.

It has simply been drafted into diplomacy.

The Kingdom Gets Smaller

For a while, all this activity can make the breakup feel strangely unfinished. Messages arrive, memories are revived, history gets another rewrite, and ordinary household objects may suddenly become strangely important.

Then, gradually, something changes.

The kingdom gets smaller, not necessarily because he stops issuing proclamations, but because you are no longer standing inside it.

From farther away, the grand speeches lose some of their grandeur. The urgent messenger begins to look rather silly from a distance, and although the royal historian is still rewriting June, you no longer feel particularly compelled to read the new edition.

The palace that once seemed enormous begins to look like what it always was: one small place in a much larger world.

He may still be at the gates announcing developments concerning your departure, but meanwhile you have wandered far enough away to discover the monarchy’s least favorite piece of information.

Life continues perfectly well outside the kingdom.

And nobody out here seems to require the king’s permission.