The Monster Who Wore A Crown

You arrived like something borrowed from a story—clean boots, practiced smile, eyes that knew how to look enchanted.

I thought enchantment meant safety. I didn’t yet know the difference.

The castle was never dark at first. It was bright with promise, windows open, music drifting through rooms I trusted. If there was a spell at work, it felt gentle.

You admired me the way collectors do—as if I were rare, as if rarity meant possession. I mistook being chosen for being cherished.

Somewhere between seasons, the magic thinned. The air cooled. You wandered the halls less often, busy with mirrors, busy rehearsing yourself.

I don’t want the story back. I only wonder if dimming my summer was part of the tale or just the consequence of letting a stranger wear a crown.

You were never the dragon. That’s the trick of it. You were the prince who left early, the one who admired the kingdom but never learned how to rule his care.

I began asking the walls questions instead of you. They answered more honestly.

You slipped through the gate before dawn, leaving no curse behind—just the quiet understanding that charm without devotion still breaks things.

One day the story will be retold, softened, simplified. You’ll be a footnote, a passing figure in someone else’s myth.

I won’t carry your name forward. Only the lesson written in gold leaf: Not every fairytale villain roars. Some bow, some promise, some disappear

before the spell is broken.

And I live on— wiser, still luminous, no longer waiting for someone who only loved

the beginning of the story.