
I used to think I was one of the good ones.
The kind of guy who always tried to do the right thing. Who opened doors, never raised his voice, who went out of his way to avoid conflict. The guy who said “whatever you want” in relationships. The guy who stayed late to help at work, who fixed the toilet without being asked, who never forgot a birthday.
I wasn’t doing these things just to be nice. Or at least, I didn’t think I was. I was doing them because I believed—on some deep, unspoken level—that this was how the world worked. That if I was a good guy, if I followed the rules, if I made everyone happy, I’d be happy too.
That didn’t happen.









