There’s something particularly devastating about the realization that you weren’t loved—you were hunted.
That a man can act like you’re his whole world, just to later reveal that you were nothing more than prey. That behind all the sweet nothings and princess treatment was calculation. A performance. A mask worn with intention. And when the mask slips, when the damage is done, suddenly it’s your fault for not seeing the cracks.
I need to say this clearly: when the dust settles, I don’t want to hear a single person blame her for what that creature did.
Not a single word about what signs she missed. Not a whisper about how long she stayed. Not a breath wasted on what she “should’ve known.”
The emotional labor Black women—especially darker-skinned Black women—are forced to carry is unrelenting. The world turns us into mules and then calls it our burden to bear. We are expected to discern who is dangerous, even when that danger comes dressed in tears, soft hands, and all the right words. We are expected to spot the devil in a suit and still carry grace on our backs.
Meanwhile, men are handed the benefit of the doubt and the script. They are believed when they cry. Even when they’re crying over something they caused.
Let’s talk about it.
Because this isn’t just about one couple, one headline, or one heartbreak. This is a pattern. A pop culture moment that exposes something ugly, familiar, and deeply gendered.
And yes—I was one of the people saying there was something off about him. I’ll stand ten toes down on that. It’s not intuition; it’s pattern recognition. I’ve seen it too many times. The lovebombing. The worship. The “anything for you, princess” energy that always comes with a silent clock ticking in the background. When it goes off, you’re left picking up shards, and he’s suddenly a victim of his own behavior.
Even still, I can say this: while I don’t feel fooled, it’s not like I was looking at someone’s relationship hoping for its downfall—because that’s weird and wrong. We all would’ve preferred to see a happily ever after for everyone involved. Nobody wants to see someone get hurt, especially not in the name of being “right.” What we wanted was peace, was love, was care. What we got was a mask peeled back.
Crying over something you did? Spare me. How about a performance for accountability, not tears. The most chilling part is how good they are at acting. They rehearse empathy, simulate vulnerability, study you until they can mirror your wounds back to you—and in that moment, it feels like connection. It feels like care. Until it doesn’t.
Until you realize that your trauma was just a blueprint.
So again, abeg: don’t ask why she didn’t leave. Ask why he didn’t. Why didn’t he leave her alone, if he knew he was incapable of loving her with care? Why did he pursue her with such intensity, only to break her apart with such precision? Why do men keep being allowed to do this? Lastly, why must we carry the weight of their destruction?
Let Black women be blindsided in peace. Let us grieve, be heartbroken, be naïve, be human. Stop asking us to be fortune tellers, healers, and detectives all at once. Please.
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