Main Character Syndrome
How Wanting To Be “The Only Girl in the World” Can Make You Desperate
Be honest with me — haven’t you, at some point, acted like your everyday life was straight out of a movie? We are the main characters in our own lives, so why not romanticize it a little? What’s the worst that could happen?
Picture this: you’re walking down the street, music blasting in your headphones, and for a moment, the world fades into the background. The camera zooms in, perfectly framing your every move. Hold onto that thought. Doesn’t it feel amazing? Sure, you might call it self-absorbed. You could also say it’s a way of romanticizing everyday loneliness. Bottom line is: we all do it. Especially now, in today’s world of social media and bingeable TV shows.
“Like everyone else, I sometimes live in a deluded reality where I am “the only girl in the world.” That sentence just resonated with me — so now, let me tell you a little story.
And yes, it involves… a man. No surprises there. Somehow, they’re experts on the matter.
Time to dig a hole :
A recently single woman in her mid-twenties, who has spent all her adult life in relationships, is finally tasting “freedom” — and savoring it. She’s thriving, discovering the highs and lows of having boys eating out of the palm of her hand. One-night stands come and go. A “situationship” stretches into its third month. Life is chaotic, unpredictable. And then, she meets Mr. Sadface. At first glance, he’s not her type. Not even close. He’s a dark, moody guy — a bit emo if you will — and there’s nothing about him that stirs a genuine attraction. He simply doesn’t stand out.
She is me. Obviously
I met him for the first time at a bar and didn’t pay him much attention. I spent the evening laughing with his friend, unaware that he’d been trying to make moves on me. It’s not until our second encounter that I finally start to pay him even the slightest bit of attention. The only reason that pushes me to do so is the love of the chase — the game. And, let’s be honest, boredom. By then, the man I’d been seeing was starting to ignore me, leaving me restless and craving validation. I needed another toy to play with, another way to boost my ego. I remember telling my friends that night that I’d been flirting with Mr. Sadface for that exact reason.
After a couple of days of cracking jokes and explicitly flirting over Instagram DMs I decide to make the first move, asking him out for a drink. Why not? He’s not my type after all — not even close. But he wants me, and that’s what matters. I have the upper hand, and that power feels so good.
Bare with me — the topic is about to unfold.
The night is, to be honest, as average as it gets. Before the date, I stalked his socials — as one does. And let me tell you, I was cringing at his content. I cannot stress this enough: he was a thousand miles away from what I was looking for in a man.
But then, something shifts. Is it a deep connection? A sudden attraction to someone I felt nothing for a few hours ago?
No, of course not. Mr. Sadface just cannot stop complimenting me (1). My outfit, my hair, my face,.. he’s practically tripping over himself to let me know how beautiful I am. “You’re so beautiful, it’s awful,” he says while struggling to maintain eye contact. His awkwardness, his sincerity — it’s like fuel for me (2). Am I a goddess? This is the exact thought, the exact feeling I had on that night. And let’s be real: my egocentric personality loved it so much it’s concerning. He’s pouring admiration on me like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Like I’m The Only Girl in the World. I could only crave for more.
On that evening, Mr. Sadface wasn’t a person to me. He wasn’t a man with his own story, his own complexities, or even his own feelings. No — he was a mirror. Reflecting back on the version of myself I wanted to be seen as: confident and desirable.
Now let’s play a game, shall we? You’ve probably noticed the numbers in parentheses — I hope you did. Well, you and I are going to count how many times my Main Character Syndrome leads me to lose sight of what’s really happening. Because, the thing about acting like you’re the main character: it can be thrilling and fun, but it blinds you.
From there, it’s almost all downhill for me.
We had our first date and I’ll admit, I started to feel a little infatuated with him. Just a little. But it was only one date, and even though it ended with him fingering me on my couch, I wasn’t about to text him so soon. After all, he didn’t even spend the night. Why, you ask? Oh, well he… “wanted to get to know me better before going further” (3).
The day after our date was NYE, and even though I had my own plans, I knew deep down I’d find a way to see him. And wouldn’t you know it — Mr. Sadface texts me at 3 a.m. He wants to see me. I’m a 60€ Uber ride away from him. I’ve just shelled out 20€ for a club entry ticket. Logically, this should be a hard no from both sides. And yet, as I’m staring at my phone, I read his text: “I’m in the Uber.” Is he really coming? Like, on his own? He doesn’t know anyone here. He doesn’t even like the music. (4)
To be fair; I’ve mixed so many drugs into my body tonight that it would be impossible to list them all. I’m so high, it’s hard to even process what’s happening around me. But as soon as he arrives, I ditch my friends without a second thought. I’m focused on him now, and him only. We talk for hours. He’s opening up to me, sharing pieces of himself I wasn’t expecting. He tells me he’s afraid of me. “I could deeply fall for you,” he says, and “ I’m not ready for that. Being around you, it scares me” (5). — I hope you’re blushing as much as I did.
Obviously, I want him to have a good time as much as I do. It’s NYE, after all. So we decide to leave the rave, together. On the ride back to his place, the conversation gets deeper. Relationships. Love. His view is dark, but I can’t help but listen. “Love makes you act like an addict,” he says, and the irony of it all stings in the back of my mind.
It’s 7 a.m. on January 1st when we finally arrive at his apartment. We’re sitting on his couch, snorting lines of cocaine, listening to music straight out of a top 60’s compilation — aren’t we so alt? We’re bonding over everything; dreams, politics, the future. Each topic feels profound as if we’re uncovering secrets about the world, about each other. And I can feel him analyzing me — listening to my every word, watching my every movement, as though he’s trying to figure out what makes me, me.
The morning stretches on, long and endless. At some point, it’s time to sleep. Or at least, it should be. But it’s impossible — stupid, really — with the amount of powder we’ve shoved up our noses.
The hours that follow feel like they’re pulled straight out of a teen rom-com. We kissed. Again and again. For hours. At first, we didn’t even have sex — how could we? The drugs made it impossible for him to stay hard. But he wanted to. I could feel him, his body trying, his dick getting harder and harder, like his desire for me was some unstoppable force. And when I pulled away from him for just a moment, he begged me to start kissing him again.“You have to kiss me, again” he said, his voice low and desperate.
He was…intense. Too intense. At one point, he told me he felt love for me (6). How could he? How could he feel love when we’ve only known each other for a few days? But he said something that stuck with me:
“Love can be something you feel in a moment. I’m in love now, but I might not be tomorrow.”
He’s acting like an addict, and I’m his drug. He can’t get enough of me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a beautiful face” he murmurs, staring into my eyes, his fingers brushing against my cheek like I’m something delicate. Something untouchable (7). And for a while, I let myself fall into it — the attention, the adoration, I just love it too much.
He’s about to say it (8) — I’m scared. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands glide across my skin. “I want to tell you, I love you,” he starts, then hesitates. “Okay, maybe that’s pushing it a little too far,” he admits. But still, he doesn’t stop there. His fingers trace the curve of my shoulder, his voice low but deliberate. “Your skin is so soft. I want you to be mine.” (9)
But then, things start to shift.
He asks me about my previous relationships. Specifically, about who I’ve slept with. It’s fucking weird. His curiosity feels invasive, prying. He wants to know if I’ve had sex with anyone he knows. I don’t want to tell him, It’s personal. We don’t even know each other that well. But I eventually do. I don’t know why, but I tell him. And the second I do, I feel it. The shift. He’s bothered. Not by the fact that I told him, but by the fact that it’s me. The idea that some of his friends have seen me naked — it eats him (10).
The only other guy I’d met before him who was this intense ended up harassing me, traumatizing me to my core. It lingers in my mind, like a shadow over everything he says and does. My guard is up — how could it not be? Yet, I can’t stop myself. I can’t do anything but let myself go and live in the moment.
Ok. Enough. On that night — morning? afternoon? — we were in our own little world, a bubble. But bubbles, by their very nature, can only pop.
If you’ve been keeping track, we’ve now reached the number 10.
That’s it.
I’m hooked. My ego has been fed — overfed actually. He has me. He’s filled my mind with the thoughts I’ve been craving all along: I’m special. I’m worthy.
He will love me in all my damaged glory.
Since that night, I’ve been completely out of control. My thoughts, my actions, and my every move — they all revolve around him now. He was right, wasn’t he? Love does make you act like an addict. But is this truly love?
I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not. Not really. Maybe I’m just in love with the idea of him loving me. But it doesn’t even matter. Because it keeps on going. And now I’m experiencing something I’ve never felt before: rejection.
Rejection, the mind-slayer
Of course, now he’s doing everything in the book. Pulling away. Trailing behind breadcrumbs. Saying just enough to keep me hanging on but not enough to give me what I really want. And as a self-absorbed twenty-something woman, I’m losing myself over it. How do you reject someone without really rejecting them? How do you string someone along, keeping them desperate for the crumbs you leave behind? Well, it looks like Mr. Sadface has that mastered. And somehow, I’m the one chasing?
At least he was honest about one thing: he’s afraid of commitment. He’s complicated. That much he told me upfront. But here’s the kicker: I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t want a relationship either. I was only here for the game, the thrill of it all. So how did the tables turn on me without me even realizing it?
Well, this one is for you, Mr. Sadface. I don’t want a relationship with you and you clearly can’t have one with me either. So why can’t we just enjoy our time together for a bit? You are the one making all this so dramatic. And over what? You’re pulling away for the sake of “not ruining something special.” Something between us that in your mind could be beautiful.
But the thing is, by pulling away, you’re not preserving anything. You’re just leaving this as a hollow nothingness. A limbo. A space that feels empty yet somehow leaves me desperate. And now, every step we take feels wrong. Every word, every glance, every interaction is stained.
You have become the incarnation of everything I fear. Everything I doubt. Everything that makes me desperate. I’m not the only girl in the world — your world — and at my age, I’ve come to terms with that. I’m not naive enough to expect to be someone’s entire universe. But was all this necessary?
What are you, really?
And so, here I am. Sitting with the wreckage of my own making. Mr. Sadface isn’t the villain of this story. Not really. He didn’t ask to be cast as the romantic lead in the movie playing out in my head. He didn’t script my fantasies of validation or direct the way I craved to be seen. I did that. All by myself.
That’s the thing about Main Character Syndrome. It’s addictive. It convinces you that the world revolves around you and that everyone else exists as props or plot devices to fulfill your story arc. But the truth is, no one else is following your script. They’re busy starring in their own.
I guess love isn’t a game nor a spotlight. It’s not a reflection of how desirable or special you are. It is messy. Human.
But still, it’s a warm hug, not a war with yourself. If that’s what I want, I have to stop being the main character. I have to step out of the spotlight and start living in the real world.
