We’ve known each other since college — never best friends, but I always had her back. She’s had a rough few years, and I’ve quietly stepped in before: letting her crash at my place, spotting her some cash when things were tight. So when she told me she hadn’t eaten in days, I didn’t hesitate. I filled a bag with homemade meals — soups, pasta, stir-fry — and planned to drop it off after work.
Later that night, I was scrolling Instagram and saw her post: a photo of cocktails and sushi, captioned “Treating myself — no regrets.” My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen, rereading it, trying to justify it somehow. But it was crystal clear — she wasn’t starving. She was lying.
I took the bag out of my car and unpacked it back into my freezer. I didn’t text her, didn’t say anything. I just knew I was done. Not because she posted a meal — but because she made me feel like a fool for caring.
A few days later, she messaged me, furious that I “ghosted” her. I didn’t explain. I don’t need drama or apologies. I’m generous, but not stupid. The trust is gone — and once that’s gone, so is the help.
