The first time I met Martín was in a coffee shop that looked like it came straight out of an Instagram catalogue. It was the kind of place he would describe as “a magical nook blending rustic charm with contemporary vibes,” though to me, it was just another café. He arrived late, blaming a “technical issue” with his electric bike—a vehicle he claimed to have personally modified for optimal performance.
At the time, I thought it admirable that someone cared so much about technology and sustainable mobility. Later, I’d discover that his only real contribution to cycling was occasionally inflating the tyres—a classic move for a narcissist who thrives on illusion rather than substance.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, as it often does when someone monopolises 80% of it. Psychology, medicine, pedagogy, languages. Martín had an opinion (or rather, a “lecture”) on absolutely everything. As I sipped my cappuccino, I thought it refreshing to meet someone so “cultured.” Sure, there were minor inconsistencies in his stories, but I dismissed them as trivial mistakes. The human brain is complex, right? Even “experts” can mix up details.
What I couldn’t have imagined at the time was that these small contradictions were just the tip of the iceberg. Over time, I came to understand that Martín wasn’t so much a man of many talents as a man of many performances. And in each setting, he played a role perfectly tailored to his audience. His behaviour fits all the classic narcissistic personality traits, and I was only beginning to see the pattern.
The Absent Chef
Martín was a passionate advocate for home cooking—until it was time to get his hands dirty. Early in our relationship, he invited me to his house for a “gourmet dinner.” I arrived excited, eager to learn something new, but to my surprise, his mother appeared to oversee every step, from chopping the onions to plating the dishes. Martín flitted between the kitchen and the dining room like a conductor, ensuring I believed the credit was all his. Later, when I complimented the delicious meal, he gave me that blend of pride and false modesty that became his trademark.
“Well, experience counts,” he said, as his mother cleared the table.
This was just another performance. Dating a narcissist means constantly discovering that the person in front of you is an illusion, carefully crafted to impress.
The Ideological Paradox
One of Martín’s most fascinating (and frustrating) traits was his ability to preach values with near-religious conviction while doing exactly the opposite. Narcissistic relationships thrive on double standards, and Martín was a master of them.
He declared himself a staunch defender of public health and free education but was one of the biggest tax evaders I’d ever met. “The system is broken,” he told me once, as if that justified not contributing to the very system he believed should protect the most vulnerable.
But that was just one of many contradictions. I recall another time when we talked about gender equality. He gave a long and passionate speech about how women deserve the same opportunities and respect as men. It all sounded wonderful—until a few days later, at a gathering with friends, he made a disparaging comment about a woman who didn’t meet his aesthetic standards. Red flags in relationships aren’t always obvious at first, but his hypocrisy became harder to ignore.
He also had a peculiar knack for pointing out others’ supposed “flaws” with near-scientific confidence, often inventing stories or exaggerating details to make someone else look bad. At one gathering, he criticised an acquaintance for spending money on designer clothes instead of “investing in something more meaningful,” only to brag minutes later about buying an expensive watch “because I deserve it.” When confronted or called out on his inconsistencies, he always had an excuse ready: “It’s different in my case,” he’d say—a hallmark of narcissistic behaviour patterns.
The Eternal Son
Martín had a peculiar relationship with his mother, one that oscillated between dependency and blind admiration. She held a central role in his life, not only handling domestic tasks but also acting as his emotional mediator. Whenever we disagreed, it wouldn’t be long before she called or messaged me, “casually” mentioning how much Martín valued me and how sensitive he was.
One night, after a particularly absurd argument (about the “superiority” of French cinema, a topic on which he was also an “expert”), I received a message from his mother: “Martín is a man with many ideas. Sometimes he struggles to express them, but he cares deeply about you. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
It was then I realised I wasn’t just in a relationship with Martín, but also with his mother, his ego, and his insatiable need for validation.
The Goodbye: Planned but Inevitable
When I decided it was time to end our relationship, I knew I had to plan it carefully. With a personality like Martín’s, any conversation could become a minefield. Unfortunately, leaving a narcissist safe is rarely straightforward.
The breakup happened after an argument where, once again, he minimised my words and mocked my feelings. This time, however, there was no room for reconciliation. I told him he had offended me; he didn’t take it seriously, so I stood up and left.
I thought that would be the end of it. But, like a dark comedy, the epilogue wasn’t far behind. A few months later, his mother reached out again, this time with a more calculated message. Among lines dripping with sweetness and apparent goodwill, she slipped in a phrase I still remember: “Don’t forget that our door is always open, and it would be a pleasure to have you back.” A message that, somehow, felt less like an invitation and more like a reminder of how hard it was to escape Martín’s world.
It was the last time I replied, with an equally generic message. Then I blocked her. Martín, for his part, reappeared a month later with a message I never answered.
And so ended the story of Martín. Or, rather, just one more story that became an uncomfortable mirror as I began to explore why I am so often drawn to narcissists. Perhaps sharing these stories is a way to understand not just them but also myself—and what I seek, even when I don’t always like what I find.
If you’ve ever found yourself entangled with a narcissist—questioning your reality, excusing contradictions, or feeling emotionally drained—it’s time to break free. Recognising the red flags is the first step, but reclaiming your voice and self-worth is the true victory. Share your story, support others on their journey, and most importantly, choose yourself—always.
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