To be “just friends parasited” is to wake up one day and realize you’ve been running on empty for months. Your kindness was never friendship to them. It was a resource. And the hardest part isn’t the anger—it’s the shame. Because you called them friend . And they called you useful .
There is a quiet hollowing that happens when you realize the friendship was never a two-way street. It was a host-parasite arrangement dressed in the soft language of “no labels,” “keeping things casual,” or—the cruelest of all—“we’re just friends.” just friends parasited
The parasite arrives charming. They need a listener at 2 a.m., a shoulder after their ex texts, a ride to the airport, a plus-one to their cousin’s wedding. And you give. Because you are a friend. That’s what friends do. But somewhere along the way, the giving becomes a one-way siphon. To be “just friends parasited” is to wake