Camouflage

We are told that birds of the same feather flock together.

It’s offered as wisdom, as reassurance — a way to believe that similarity equals safety. But I’ve begun to wonder if it’s truth, or simply comfort dressed up as certainty. A saying we repeat so we don’t have to look too closely at who stands beside us.

Some people arrive in our lives as brothers, as sisters, as friends.

They come gently. Familiar. Easy to trust. You love them genuinely. You share space, stories, time. You laugh. You settle into rhythm. You assume closeness means care, that proximity means protection. At first, everything feels mutual. Balanced. Warm.

Then there is a shift — so subtle you almost dismiss it.

A comment that lingers longer than it should.

A request that feels slightly off.

A moment where your generosity is tested, not cherished.

You sense it before you understand it.

Your body notices before your mind does. A tightening. A pause. A feeling you can’t yet name. Something doesn’t sit right, but you tell yourself you’re imagining it. You excuse it. You soften your instinct. You stay.

Then, slowly, the pieces begin to click.

Patterns emerge where you once saw coincidence. Intentions surface where you once assumed care. What felt like affection begins to reveal appetite. What looked like loyalty exposes need. What you thought was shared ground starts to feel uneven, sloped in one direction. A place where you are always giving footing, always adjusting.

Some people do not come to walk with you — they come to feed.

They study your kindness. They wear familiarity like camouflage. They learn your language, your weaknesses, your rhythm. Not to protect it — but to use it. They understand exactly how to ask, when to ask, how much to take without appearing cruel.

They do not arrive as threats.

They arrive as family.

As laughter.

As we.

And when you finally see them clearly, the betrayal is not loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t break anything in one dramatic moment. It is quiet. It is the slow realisation that the danger was never outside the circle — it was already inside, speaking your language, using your name.

Not every flock is safe.

Not every closeness is kinship.

And not everyone who calls you theirs intends to stand beside you.

Some are not birds at all.

They are predators dressed in belonging.

They ask, and you’re eager — because that’s what family is for. Because love, to you, has always meant availability. Because showing up feels like proof that you matter. Because saying yes feels like the cost of being included.

Borrowed family can feel like home at first.

The warmth. The familiarity.

The comfort of being needed, of being included, of being seen.

You tell yourself this is what community looks like. You tell yourself this is what it means to show up for people. You don’t question it, because questioning love feels like betrayal.

But once becomes twice.

And twice becomes three times.

And somewhere between the favours and the silences, you pause.

You look back and realise you haven’t asked for anything. Not help. Not space. Not consideration. You’ve given freely, repeatedly, without keeping count — until the count begins keeping you.

You start noticing how your name is called only when something is needed. How your presence is required, but your absence would be felt only in what you provide, not in who you are. How love, in this place, comes with conditions you were never told about.

You begin to understand that generosity, when unreciprocated, turns into expectation. That kindness, when taken for granted, becomes a resource. That being reliable can quietly erase you, until you exist only for what you can supply.

The moment of knowing is not explosive.

It is slow.

It is the ache of realisation settling in your chest, heavy and undeniable. The understanding that you were not walking beside them — you were carrying them. That what you thought was shared effort was sustained imbalance.

And when you finally hesitate, when you finally say no or simply stop offering, the warmth changes. Questions sharpen. Silence stretches. Affection cools. You feel the shift immediately, even if nothing is said aloud.

That is when you know.

Not because they harmed you openly — but because they noticed the loss of your usefulness before they noticed your absence.