They named me villain
before I ever raised my voice.
Before anger found my ribs.
Before pain learned my name.
They pointed at my silence
and called it cold.
They watched me survive
and called it cruelty.
I learned something dangerous that day:
people fear what they cannot control,
and they destroy what they cannot soften.
I was too much —
too observant,
too unafraid of solitude,
too unwilling to beg for affection.
So they rewrote me.
In their version,
I was heartless.
In their version,
my boundaries were threats
and my distance was a crime.
They never asked what it cost
to become this composed.
They never ask how many times
a girl must be disappointed
before she stops offering her heart
like an open wound.
I watched them build the story carefully —
hero on one side,
monster on the other.
No space for nuance.
No room for truth.
What they did not understand
is that being cast as the villain
frees you.
Once you stop trying to be understood,
you start becoming unstoppable.
I did not correct them.
I let the rumors grow teeth.
I let the fear protect me.
If they needed a villain,
I would be one —
but on my own terms.
Because I learned this from my mother:
when the world insists on a mask,
choose one that terrifies your enemies.
And still —
even now —
I know the truth they avoid:
I was never evil.
I was done explaining myself.