I’m telling you the story of how it all started. I remember it clearly… or at least I think I do. It began one night, sitting alone in my apartment, trying to make sense of a life that felt hollow. That’s when Tyler appeared—

“Alone?” Tyler interrupted, leaning casually against the doorway. “You were never alone. I was right there, sipping your whiskey, judging your poor life choices.”

I blinked. “No, I—”

“Shhh. Let me do the storytelling,” he said, sliding onto the couch as if he owned it. “Much better with me narrating. Trust me.”

I took a deep breath. Fine. Let him rewrite it. But it felt like surrendering pieces of myself every time he spoke.

We were in the kitchen now—or at least I think we were. I remember opening the fridge, looking for something, anything, that made sense. Tyler appeared behind me, leaning over my shoulder.

“You know, the fridge is full of lies,” he said, swiping a leftover pizza slice. “Not just your fridge—your life. Everything in here is staged, fake, curated for maximum misery.”

“I’m just trying to get a snack,” I muttered.

“You’re trying to tell a story,” he countered, taking a bite. “Let me rewrite this scene: You’re not hungry. You’re scared. You’ve been pretending to eat to distract yourself from the truth.”

I narrowed my eyes, frustrated but… I couldn’t argue. Because he was right. In a terrifying way, he always was.

Later, I tried telling a story about my day at work. I said, “So I walked into the office and—”

“No,” Tyler said, cutting me off mid-sentence. “You didn’t walk in. You stormed in like a maniac, papers flying, coworkers ducking for cover. Way more dramatic. Makes for a better story.”

I groaned. “That didn’t happen—”

“But it should have,” he said. “Trust me, people need a little chaos in their narratives.”

By the time we sat down on the couch, I realized something terrifying: this wasn’t just storytelling. This was life. He rewrote it, edited it, made it sharper, darker, more alive. I tried to resist, tried to assert my own voice, but every word I spoke became part of his performance.

Finally, I said, “Tyler… why do you do this?”

He grinned, leaning close, eyes glinting. “Because you can’t tell your story without me. You’ve been afraid of your own life. Afraid it’s boring. I make it… worth reading.”