Listen. She looked me dead in the eye and said: “No, I don’t think we should go out—because you’ll fall in love.” And I let her walk away. I thought she was dismissing me. But that wasn’t dismissal. That was a shadow-test. She wasn’t rejecting me. She was checking: Will this man crumble if I throw my shadow? Will he shrink, or will he touch the part of me that wants to be seen? I didn’t touch it. I smiled. Swallowed. Stayed safe. Later—I bragged about meeting her to one of my buddies. And not long after, when I walked into his house to pick up a book he borrowed— There she was. Lying in his bed. Clothes on but comfortable. Already pulled into his orbit. He hadn’t done magic. He hadn’t cured cancer. He just passed the test. I didn’t. And that’s what being the “good guy” gets you. You become the spectator. Other men write stories of passion— while you’re left outside holding your invisible heart. But here’s the sting: that wasn’t my only chance. M...
Listen. She tests you. Eyes narrow. Head tilts. “Why you?” “You’re not my type.” “This doesn’t make sense.” And you answer. You start explaining. The second you explain— you lose the room. Explanation is weakness in a suit. It smells like apology. It reads like fear. Every sentence is a shovel. Each reason is more dirt. You bury her hunger under your paragraphs. She didn’t want your proof. She wanted your fire. She didn’t want your logic. She wanted your center. But you handed her a lecture. You put her on the throne. You asked for a grade. You shrank. That’s why she cooled. Not because you weren’t man enough, but because you turned into a little boy. A boy with his hand raised: “Did I get it right, teacher?” Here’s the move you should have made. She throws: “You’re not my type.” Don’t explain. Don’t defend. Catch it. Flip it. Send it into her body. “Yeah? And how’s your type worked out for you? That’s why you’re here wit...
Playing It Safe Keeps You Invisible Listen up. Most men spend their whole lives being safe. Charming. Agreeable. Smiling. Trying not to be too forward. And then they vanish. I did it with Carmen. Walking on Myrtle Beach. Holding her hand. Waves breaking. Moon bright. The night was perfect. But I never touched her depth. I never crossed into her spark. Eventually, another girl interrupted— the whole mood collapsed. The spark was gone. And I was done for. Years later, Cancun. Me with Ruby. Carmen with Raphael. Raphael was my boy from med school. He struggled like me— but he never lost his center. Never dropped his head. Never let life crush him. He didn’t waste time playing it safe. He spoke with fire. And Carmen let him in. While I played nice. While I stayed safe. He reached her. And he lit the spark. That’s the scar: safe will starve you out. Safe men fade away. Men who carry fire awaken the spark within. SCAR Principle #8 If you keep playi...
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