🌪️ The Lost Ones — A Chapter from NarcFlex

I’m thinking of writing another shit book what do you think? 

It’s called NarcFlex—part healing manual, part survival satire, part love letter to those of us who learned to read silence like a second language. It’s for anyone who’s looked at someone they love and thought: “You’re here… but not really.”

This post is a preview of one chapter. A rough, beautiful, haunted chapter. It’s about lost partners. Not the ones who die, but the ones who disappear while standing in the same room.

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She doesn’t like praying. Not usually. But today, under the stale light of a school assembly, my daughter closed her eyes and whispered a single wish:

“Please, let my dad’s brain disorder go away.”

She’s smart enough to see through the noise. She knows the drinking, the drugs, the neglect. But her soul still holds room for a miracle, even when logic tells her otherwise. She prayed for the man who doesn’t pray for her.

The man who lived in our home once—physically, at least. While she was self-harming in the next room, while he worked, drank, slept, repeated. While I watched her unravel for scraps of attention he couldn’t give.

So I threw him out.

No drama. No screaming. Just clarity. Because I was done watching her bleed in silence for a man wrapped in his own fog.

And after he left, something happened. She started spotting the blue sky again. Literally.

“Look, Mum. The sky’s so blue today.”

It was the kind of thing you say when you’ve come up for air. The kind of thing you say when life begins to feel real again.

But her hope still lingers. In quiet moments, when she speaks of him as if he might one day return—available, awake, whole.

She doesn’t understand that some people aren’t just emotionally absent. They’re spiritually adrift. They’re not choosing to ignore you. They simply cannot see you.

So who is he?

That’s the question I keep returning to. Not in rage, but in heartbreak. Not for myself—but for the girl who prayed anyway.

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📚 Would You Read This Book?

NarcFlex is my attempt to say everything I couldn’t say when I was in survival mode. It’s part journal, part roadmap, part audacious rebellion against narcissistic fog. If you’ve ever felt confused by someone who claimed to love you—but disappeared the moment it counted—this is for you.

Would you want more chapters like this? Does this kind of truth-telling resonate?

Your thoughts mean everything as I shape this story into something that can live beyond my own experience. You can comment, share, or just sit with it quietly. Either way—you’re not alone in the blue-sky moments, or the storm.