It didn’t matter what I said.
It didn’t matter what I did.
Some people already had their story written,
and I was the villain.
Before the event.
Before the conviction.
Before the collapse.
I walked into the world already misunderstood.
And the truth is—
sometimes, I gave them reasons.
I was messy.
I was angry.
I didn’t always respond with grace.
But I was never the monster they made me.
I was just someone trying to survive a narrative that didn’t have room for the full picture.
The villain is easy.
They don’t require nuance.
They don’t get backstory.
They don’t get healing arcs or letters or late-night breakdowns.
They get headlines.
They get hashtags.
They get judged.
And the more I tried to explain,
the more I confirmed their suspicion that I was dangerous—
not because I was,
but because I refused to vanish.
Because I didn’t stay where shame wanted me.
What they got wrong is assuming I agreed with the role.
I didn’t.
But I wore it anyway—because trying to outrun it nearly killed me.
So I learned to speak from inside it.
If I was going to be the villain in their story,
I was going to tell my side anyway.
Because I knew—
somewhere, someone needed to hear the other voice.
The one that didn’t beg to be liked.
Just heard.
I didn’t need to be the hero.
That’s not real.
That’s not useful.
That’s not who I am.
But I am someone who’s grown.
I am someone who owns what he broke.
I am someone who’s walked into fire, again and again,
and still chooses to sing.
You can call me the villain.
But if you do,
make sure you tell the whole story.
Make sure you mention the fire I walked through.
The mirror I refused to shatter.
The people I loved.
The pain I caused.
The pain I carried.
The songs I still wrote when no one was listening.
I wasn’t asking for sainthood.
Only space to become something more than their script.