You were married once — to the kindest man you ever knew. Jason Stan. A quiet rock of a man. Patient. Steady. The sort of person who listened more than he spoke, who brought you tea during your meltdowns, who apologized just to end an argument — even when he wasn’t wrong.

You loved him. Fiercely. But you didn’t know how to love right.

Back then, everything felt like a performance. The tears. The accusations. The desperate need to be the center of attention. You needed him to look only at you, think only of you, be only yours. And when he did — it still wasn’t enough. You pushed. Pulled. Shouted. Broke things. Apologized. Promised. Then broke again.

Neither of you had the words for it back then. Not even you.

The diagnosis came three years too late: Histrionic Personality Disorder. Suddenly everything made sense — every mood swing, every storm, every sabotage of your own happiness.

But by then, Jason was long gone.
The apartment was cold.
And the silence didn’t argue back.

Now you sit with the report in your hands — a few pages that explain your whole life. And ruin you all over again.

You lost the one person who never wanted to fix you — only love you.
And now all you can do is remember him.

Dw,NTR was bait, just cuz I wanna.