Epilogue

Author’s note: the messages reproduced in this epilogue arrived in three languages. Those he wrote in Mandarin and Portuguese appear here in translation. Those he wrote in English are reproduced as they arrived, uncorrected.

New York, March 21, 2026.

In March, he posted on his social media my name, my address, and my medical information, in an attempt to make me lose my job as a flight attendant.

That Saturday morning, I sent him a formal notice, in Mandarin. I wrote that disclosing personal and medical data without consent violated China’s Personal Information Protection Law and Civil Code, that I had completed the preservation of evidence, and that I reserved the right to hold him accountable through legal channels. I asked him to delete everything and cease all distribution.

Eleven minutes later, the reply arrived. It was not an apology, nor a refusal. It was a photograph: the confirmation screen of a corporate reporting channel, with a report key. He had reported me to the ethics hotline of the airline I work for. He answered a legal notice by showing that he, too, knew where to strike.

I filed a formal complaint with the agency that regulates the internet in China and sent him the receipt. That afternoon came the last message of the day, in Mandarin:

“I have already consulted. I have enough evidence that you take a medication on an ongoing basis. Your chance of refuting it is zero. I hope you wake up soon, be a kind person, and stop defaming people online.”

It was the last time he threatened me. It was also the last time I answered.

March 30.

Nine days of silence. Then, at ten in the evening, a letter — in Portuguese, written with a translator, signed with his legal name, as if the nickname that runs through this book had never existed. He said he was in psychotherapy, weekly sessions, Schema Therapy. That he had learned the difference between his own patterns:

“I understood that my avoidant attachment pattern is: ‘I am afraid you won’t love me, so I leave first.’ The narcissistic pattern would be: ‘You are not good enough for me, so I leave.’ I think now you can feel the difference, just as I do.”

He said he had read the first chapter. That the sentence about the nine months having been a nightmare hurt him deeply and led him to make “a very impulsive decision — the worst of my life.” That is what he called reporting me to my employer: an impulsive decision. He apologized from the heart. He closed by wishing me a beautiful life.

I did not reply. From here on, I never replied again. I record them as they arrived.