For years we’d been acquaintances — the kind of friends who ran in the same groups and saw each other every so often. But about six months ago, everything shifted. She started spending more and more time with me. At first, it felt natural: she’d hang out at my apartment, we’d play games, talk, or work on projects for a student group. But soon, she was staying late into the night — sometimes until three in the morning.

Then she went abroad for the summer, and we barely talked. When she came back, our friendship kicked into overdrive. We started working out together three or four times a week, grabbing dinner afterward, and spending most evenings playing video games or watching TV at my place — often alone. She began texting me every day, leaving little things at my apartment, planning trips months in advance.

And somewhere along the way, the atmosphere changed. The conversations became more personal. The jokes got flirtier. The touches lasted longer. We once spent an entire workout tickling each other.

The problem? She had a boyfriend.

They’d been together for five years, but I could tell things were falling apart. She’d vent to me about him constantly — how distant he’d become, how she was thinking about ending it. But then she’d casually mention spending the night with him or invite him to group hangouts. It was confusing. She claimed she’d never cheat, and maybe she wouldn’t physically. But emotionally? I wasn’t so sure.

And the truth was, I was falling for her. Hard. We had the same sense of humor, the same interests, the same rhythm. I’d catch myself wondering if she felt it too. But I also knew it wasn’t healthy — not for me, and not for her. It felt like I was a stand-in for the parts of her relationship that were missing.

So when an opportunity came up to move across the country, I took it. I told her, and she got quiet. Then she said, “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone. I guess I’ll have to spend more time with [boyfriend].” That was all the confirmation I needed.

Still, before leaving, we spent a few more weeks together. And one night, when she called, I ended up driving back to our hometown and staying over. We drank, talked for hours, and got far too comfortable. No kissing, no clothes off, but there was touching — way over the line for someone in a relationship. We both pretended it was “just playing around,” but we knew better.

Later that night, she got drunk and told me things she’d never said before. She admitted she wasn’t attracted to her boyfriend anymore, that she’d just go through the motions in bed, that she felt trapped between staying with a nice guy and being alone. Then she said she wished she’d met me first.

It should’ve made me happy, but instead it just made me sad. Because we both knew that even if she broke up with him, she’d carry that same confusion into something with me.

A few days later, I left town. Two nights after that, she texted: “He broke up with me.”

She came to visit me the next weekend. I thought maybe we’d finally talk things through — maybe even say goodbye properly. But the whole visit felt off. She canceled dinner plans, showed up late, avoided talking about anything deep. Then she told me the breakup wasn’t her idea, that she’d begged him to take her back, and that now she had her eye on some guy from her martial arts class.

That was the moment something in me finally snapped into place. I realized she wasn’t some mystery I had to solve. She was just… lost. And I’d been letting myself get lost with her.

We hung out one last time, said polite goodbyes, and she handed me a short note with a few inside jokes and an offer to crash on her couch “if I was ever in town.”

When I got home, I read it and laughed.

Because I finally saw it for what it was — a friendship where I gave endlessly and she took without even realizing it. I’d carried her emotionally while she struggled with her relationship, and when it ended, she didn’t want me — she just didn’t want to be alone.

Now, I’m moving across the country for good. I still care about her, but not in the way I used to. The romantic feelings are gone, replaced with something more distant — the kind of affection you feel for someone who taught you a painful but valuable lesson.

She needs to figure herself out. And I need to stop being the person people lean on when their world is falling apart.

Tomorrow, I board a plane to start my new life. New job, new city, clean slate.

Here’s to learning the hard way — and to never being someone’s “almost” again.