The memory of Victoria’s tear-streaked face, and the subsequent barrage of “bitch” accusations from her friends, still stung. I had snapped, unleashing a torrent of words born from simmering frustration and a desperate need to protect my relationship. Her “desperate and pathetic” pursuit of my boyfriend, fueled by a stage kiss and drunken delusions, had pushed me past my breaking point. While a part of me felt a grim satisfaction in finally confronting her, the overwhelming guilt, coupled with the relentless judgment from her friends, left me questioning if I was truly the asshole for my outburst.
The aftermath of the afterparty was a social minefield. Victoria avoided me entirely, her friends shot me icy glares, and the once-harmonious atmosphere of our drama course became palpably tense. My boyfriend, bless his oblivious heart, seemed genuinely confused by the sudden animosity. I still believed my words, while harsh, were justified. Victoria’s relentless pursuit, her blatant disrespect for our relationship, had warranted a firm pushback. But the constant replaying of her tearful retreat, and the persistent “bitch” label from her inner circle, made me doubt my own conviction.
A few weeks later, during a late-night rehearsal, I found myself alone with our drama professor, Professor Anya Sharma. Professor Sharma was a stern but fair woman, known for her acute observations and no-nonsense approach. She’d been in the industry for decades and rarely missed a beat.
“You know,” Professor Sharma said, her voice quiet, breaking the silence, “Victoria isn’t coming to rehearsals anymore. She’s withdrawn from the play.”
I nodded, feeling a pang of something akin to guilt. “I heard. Her friends are pretty mad at me.”
Professor Sharma looked at me, her gaze piercing. “Indeed. But I wanted to share something with you, something that might offer a different perspective. Not to excuse anyone’s behavior, but to illuminate it.”
She paused, then continued, her voice softer. “Victoria’s father… he was a celebrated actor. Very well-known, very charismatic. But also, deeply, profoundly narcissistic. He was always chasing applause, always needing to be the center of attention. And he had a habit of having affairs, often with younger actresses, especially those he worked with in plays. He’d justify it by saying it was ‘part of the art,’ ‘method acting,’ that the ‘spark’ was real on stage and carried over into life. He truly believed that intense on-stage chemistry demanded a real-life connection.”
My blood ran cold. Definitely felt something when they kissed… going to ask him if he felt the same.
“Victoria adored him,” Professor Sharma continued. “She grew up watching him, idolizing him. She heard him talk about these ‘sparks’ and ‘connections’ with his co-stars constantly. And he often told her that her own value, her own worth as an actress and as a woman, was tied to her ability to create that ‘spark,’ to evoke that kind of intense connection with her male leads. He’d praise her when she was a child for being ‘passionate,’ for ‘feeling deeply’ for her scene partners, even if it was just a school play. He even told her that true artists ‘live their roles,’ blurring the lines between fiction and reality, especially when it came to romantic scenes.”
She looked at me, her expression empathetic. “Victoria was raised in an environment where the boundaries between theatrical performance and real-life emotional entanglement were not only blurred but actively encouraged, especially when it came to romantic roles. For her, a stage kiss wasn’t just a technical requirement; it was imbued with an almost sacred significance, a potential validation of her worth as an actress and as a woman, mirroring the ‘sparks’ her father always chased. Her insecurity about her looks, her constant need for external validation – it all stems from a childhood where her self-worth was tied to her ability to create these ‘connections,’ these ‘sparks’ with men, just like her father did, just like he taught her was ‘real.'”
Professor Sharma concluded, “When she went up to your boyfriend, believing she ‘felt something,’ she wasn’t necessarily trying to steal him. She was, in her own profoundly misguided way, trying to perform a role she had been taught since childhood was essential for her to be seen as valuable and desirable. She was enacting a learned script, desperate to prove her ‘artistic integrity’ and ‘worth’ in the only way she knew how, even if it meant tragically misinterpreting a simple stage kiss as a profound personal validation. Your words, while direct, didn’t just shame her; they fundamentally challenged the core of her self-worth, the very definition of ‘connection’ she had been taught since she was a child.”
The air in the rehearsal room suddenly felt thin. The “desperate,” “pathetic” girl I had so vehemently condemned wasn’t a malicious rival. She was a deeply wounded individual, a product of a childhood where the lines between performance and reality, between genuine emotion and learned behavior, had been horrifyingly erased by a narcissistic parent. Her pursuit of my boyfriend, her belief in the “spark” of a stage kiss – it wasn’t about malice or disrespect for our relationship. It was a tragic, almost involuntary, re-enactment of a fundamental, unhealed trauma. The AITA question, once a clear binary of right and wrong, dissolved into a profound, aching understanding of the unseen burdens people carry, and how the echoes of childhood trauma can tragically dictate their adult actions, even at the cost of cherished relationships and their own emotional well-being.