Why I stopped pouring into a one-sided friendship

^{By Nina Kelly}

Some friendships feel inevitable. You meet when you’re young, share a lunch table, laugh at the same jokes, and suddenly your lives are stitched together. That’s how it was with us. We met freshman year of high school and fell into an easy rhythm: hanging out after class, AIM messages that stretched late into the night, inside jokes that made us feel like we spoke our own language.

By all appearances, we were the "best friends forever" type. And we balanced each other well. She was outgoing where I was quieter, bold where I hesitated. People knew us as a pair, and for a while, I liked that. It felt safe to have “my person.”

But even in the beginning, there were cracks.

One of the first came sophomore year when I liked a guy in our history class. She knew, of course, because I wouldn’t shut up about him. Then one weekend, I heard she’d hooked up with him at a party. I wasn't there because somehow word had gotten back to my parents that there would be alcohol, but that's besides the point. As soon as I heard from a mutual friend, I asked her about it. She laughed and said, “It’s not that serious.” I tried to act like it didn't bother me but inside I felt like Cady Heron watching Regina kiss Aaron at the Halloween party. This was only the beginning of me swallowing shit I shouldn’t have.

The pattern continued in new ways

By our twenties, it wasn’t about boys anymore, it was about everything else.

She’d call at 11 p.m., voice already breaking, to cry about some guy who ghosted her. And I always answered. Even if I had to be up at six the next day. Even if I was mid-dinner with my parents and had to sneak outside to take the call. Her needs always came first.

When we went out the two of us, I picked up the check more often than not. It wasn’t even something she asked for directly; it was more of a shrug, a glance at the bill, and suddenly my card was on the table.

Her birthday stretched across a whole month and I always showed up with the nice gift.

Promotions? I sent flowers.

A new job? I bought champagne.

I branded myself the “reliable friend.” Which sounds sweet, but really it just meant I poured myself out so she never had to.

And the thing is, people like that don’t even notice. They just accept it like oxygen.

Then came the engagement, and everything went into overdrive. She asked me to be a bridesmaid. I said yes without hesitation, even though the dress cost more than half my rent. She gushed about how much she loved the designer, never once acknowledging what that price meant for me.

The bachelorette was worse. She insisted on Miami, even though most of us quietly admitted we couldn’t swing it. Flights, hotels, overpriced activities, endless rounds of drinks. I spent more in three days than I normally would in three months. And when the final bill came, she didn’t hesitate to let us cover her share “since she was the bride.” Thousands of dollars gone, and at the end? Not even a thank-you text.

The bridal shower followed — more gifts, more money. Then the wedding itself.

I was there at dawn, curling irons and champagne in hand, smiling for photos while my stomach sank at the check I’d slipped into her card. It was money I didn’t really have, but giving felt mandatory. That’s the thing about friends like her: they make you believe showing up is the toll you pay for belonging.

A few months later came her pregnancy. Another shower, another round of registry gifts, another celebration where I clapped the loudest and left the most exhausted.

Meanwhile, my life barely existed in her orbit. I started a new job I was proud of. Silence. I moved into my first apartment alone. She never asked to see it. I trained for a half marathon and actually finished. Not even a “congrats.”

It wasn’t just that she didn’t show up. It was the way her silence made me feel invisible. Like I only existed when she needed me.

And the worst part? I kept defending her. To myself, to others. I told people, “She’s just busy.” I told myself, “She doesn’t mean it.” Because admitting the truth — that my so-called best friend wasn’t actually a friend at all — felt too heavy. It’s easier to believe in history than to face reality.

But history isn’t loyalty, it’s just a timeline

The breaking point wasn’t dramatic. I almost wish it was so I could justify the whole thing better in my head, but whatever. It was a random weeknight over a single glass of wine.

She texted me about some drama at work and asked if I’d meet her for a drink. I had to be up early the next day, but I said yes. Like always.

We met at a bar near her apartment. She launched into her rant before the menus even hit the table. I sipped my one glass of wine and nodded. She ordered two.

When the check came, she picked it up, and I remember thinking, wow, that’s actually nice. She never does that.

The next morning, I woke up to a Venmo request: $14. “Wine! 🍷”

My eye twitched.

After years of bridesmaid dresses, flights, hotels, bar tabs, gifts, and answering every emotional phone call, she wanted her money back for ONE glass of wine.

I paid it. But something in me snapped.

It wasn’t just the money. It was everything that came before it. The nights I stayed on the phone until 2 a.m. while my own problems sat untouched. The times I scraped together rent while she planned yet another elaborate dinner I felt too guilty to decline. The milestones of mine that went unnoticed, uncelebrated, unacknowledged.

That $14 Venmo was just the receipt.

And in that moment, I finally admitted it to myself: I wasn’t her friend. I was her audience.

So I pulled back. Slowly, quietly. I stopped texting first. Kept my responses short. Got “busy” every weekend. I didn’t make an announcement. I didn’t burn it all down. I just stopped bleeding money and energy into something that had never been mutual.

At first, she didn’t notice. I think she genuinely believed I was just tied up with work. Then one night she texted: Hey is everything ok? I feel like I never hear from you anymore.

You’d think that would’ve been my moment to finally unload. To tally the years of swallowed disappointments and tell her what a shit friend she’d been. But I couldn’t do it. Because how do you sum up a decade of imbalance in a single text? And even if I tried, she wouldn’t hear it. She would never take that kind of accountability.

So I just wrote back, “Hi yes sorry, just been busy!!” and left it at that.

The beginning of the end

And here’s the part I didn’t expect: it didn’t feel dramatic. It didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like finally unclenching a fist I’d been holding for ten years. My days felt lighter. My wallet felt safer. My phone stopped buzzing at midnight with problems I could never solve.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if she ever noticed the shift. If she thinks of me when she scrolls through her camera roll and sees my face at her bridal shower or her bachelorette. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter.

Because I finally realized that history doesn’t make someone your friend. All it makes is a timeline. And I’ve stepped off hers.