The Weight of Empty Chairs

I used to think friendship was about how much you could give. I believed that loyalty was its own reward, that showing up for people would mean they’d do the same for you when it mattered most. But I was wrong. Life has a cruel way of revealing who’s really on your side—not when things are going well, but when everything falls apart.

For most of my twenties, I had a tight-knit group: Darren, Selena, Josh, and me. We were inseparable—group chats every day, late-night phone calls, spontaneous road trips, birthday surprises. I was the glue. I planned the trips, remembered birthdays, covered the bills when someone came up short, and I was the therapist everyone called at 2 AM.

When Darren lost his job, I helped him polish his résumé and sent him listings every morning. When Selena’s boyfriend cheated on her, I spent nights on her couch, watching her favorite shows just to help her stop crying. When Josh crashed his car, I lent him mine for three weeks without asking questions. I thought that’s what friends were for—support, no scorekeeping.

Then I got sick.

It started small—just fatigue, some dizziness. But within a month, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affected my nervous system. My days became a blur of doctor appointments, medications, and mental fog. I couldn’t work full-time anymore, and my savings vanished under the weight of hospital bills.

I didn’t expect them to fix my life. I just thought they’d be there.

At first, I tried to keep things normal. I texted the group, tried to joke around, asked when we were hanging out next. Darren said he was “swamped.” Selena read the messages and never replied. Josh just sent a thumbs-up emoji once, then went silent.

Still, I made excuses for them. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s dealing with something.

But silence became the new language between us. Weeks turned into months. Not one of them came to see me. Not one asked if I needed groceries or a ride to an appointment. Not one even asked how I was feeling.

The final blow came on my birthday. I didn’t expect a party, but I hoped for something—a call, a message, even a stupid meme. Nothing. Not even a “Happy Birthday.” That was the moment something broke in me.

I sat alone in my apartment that night, staring at my phone, re-reading old messages from the “good days,” trying to pinpoint when it all started falling apart. The truth was, I’d been blind. My friendship with them was never equal. I gave; they took. I supported; they leaned. I carried their weight, their secrets, their insecurities—but when I needed someone to carry mine, the chairs around me were empty.

It’s a strange thing to grieve the living, to mourn people who are still out there laughing, living their lives—just without you. But grief is exactly what it felt like.

Eventually, I stopped reaching out. Not out of anger, but from exhaustion. I unfollowed them online, deleted the group chat, erased birthdays from my calendar. Not because I hated them, but because I finally loved myself enough to stop begging for scraps of loyalty.

Healing wasn’t immediate. It came slowly, in small moments—like when a new coworker brought me soup without me asking, or when I joined a book club and someone offered me a ride home on a rainy night. People who didn’t owe me anything showed more care than the ones I once would’ve taken bullets for.

I learned that bad friends aren’t always loud or cruel. Sometimes, they’re just absent. Sometimes, they love the version of you that serves their needs—but not the one who needs help.

Now, I keep my circle small. I no longer chase people who make me feel invisible. I don't romanticize history or confuse shared memories with shared values. Because real friends show up. Real friends don’t disappear when the light dims. They sit with you in the dark until it comes back.

So if you're carrying a group that wouldn’t carry you—set them down.

You’ll be amazed how light your life can feel when you’re not dragging dead weight