#done trying

There’s a special kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying a friendship by yourself. Not the kind where life gets busy or people drift — that’s normal. I’m talking about the kind where you realize you’ve been holding up the entire structure with your bare hands while the other person occasionally tosses you a cute nickname like it’s enough to keep you going.

For ten years — a full decade — I’ve lived where I live now. Ten years of invitations. Ten years of “Hey, come visit.” Ten years of open doors, open weekends, open arms. And in those ten years, this friend has managed to show up for everyone else. She’ll drive, fly, rearrange her life for other people. She’ll post photos with them, celebrate them, make memories with them.

But me? Somehow I’m always the exception. Always the afterthought. Always the one she “misses so much” but never enough to actually see.

And here’s the part that finally snapped something in me: she still calls me by that cute nickname. The one that used to make me smile. The one that used to feel like a little spark of closeness. The one that once meant, “You’re special to me.”

But a nickname without action is just noise. A nickname without presence is just branding. A nickname without effort is just a lie wrapped in nostalgia.

At this point, that nickname feels like a participation trophy in a game she never actually played. It’s a sticker slapped on a relationship she hasn’t invested in for a decade. It’s the verbal equivalent of someone saying “love you!” while walking away and never looking back.

I’m done pretending it’s anything more than that.

Because if you can show up for everyone else but never for me, then the truth is simple: You chose not to. Not once. Not in ten years.

And I’m finally done giving grace to someone who never earned it. I’m done being the one who tries, the one who travels, the one who keeps the connection alive. I’m done mistaking crumbs for care.

This isn’t a friendship anymore. It’s a ghost wearing a nickname.