(A SHORT STORY)

Anjali was a constant presence, a social vine that had somehow twisted itself around my life. We used to be friends, back in the carefree days of college. Classmates thrown together by circumstance. But somewhere along the way, our friendship had morphed into something suffocating. Now, years later, our connection felt more like a burden. Anjali wasn’t malicious, but she was a bottomless pit of need, fueled by a jealousy that simmered just beneath the surface. A constant drain of positive thinking.

My successes, big or small, were met with a barrage of questions. Aced a presentation? “Oh, wow, you must’ve stayed up all night studying. Did you get any sleep at all?” A new promotion? “That’s great! They must have really needed someone to fill that spot.” Her “congratulations” always felt laced with a bitter aftertaste.

Her visits were like clockwork. In fact, her visits were timed with military precision. Right around lunch or dinner, she’d materialize at my door, a practised smile on her face. The second I opened it, the interrogation would begin. “What are you having for dinner?” she’d ask, eyes scanning my kitchen like a hawk. If I dared to mention a dish I hadn’t made myself, she’d launch into a ten-minute story about a similar recipe her “aunt” (read: a random cooking website) had.

One evening, I was having a simple dinner of samosas. Big mistake. Anjali, who wouldn’t touch fried food “for her health,” spent the entire visit calculating the cost of two samosas, down to the last rupee. “So, each samosa must have cost you…” she’d trail off, expecting me to reimburse her imaginary expense.

Visits to her house were financial landmines. A single samosa devoured transformed into a two-samosa “debt” I owed. The worst part? Anjali had no shame. She’d call me any time of day, interrupting my work or leisure with mundane updates about her life.

Her requests were bolder still. “That new saree looks lovely,” she’d coo, “Can I borrow it for that party next week?” Borrowing, of course, was a euphemism. She’d casually “borrow” sarees, conveniently “forgetting” to return them for weeks. I rarely saw my clothes again. The worst part? She wasn’t shy about it. “That new blue one you got would look lovely at my cousin’s wedding,” she’d announce, leaving no room for refusal.

One day, I decided enough was enough. “Anjali, “I value our friendship, but lately, it feels one-sided. The constant irritating behaviour, the unannounced visits…” Anjali blinked, feigning innocence. “irritating behaviour? I’m just being friendly!”

“Is it friendly to expect a free meal every time you visit?” I countered. “Or to borrow clothes with no intention of returning them?”

A flicker of anger crossed her face, but it was quickly masked. “Oh, come on,” she scoffed, “Don’t be so uptight.”

I held her gaze. “Look, if we’re going to be friends, it has to be genuine. Not this… this leeching behaviour.”

The silence stretched. Finally, Anjali huffed and stood up. “Fine,” she said, her voice tight. “If that’s how you feel.”The door clicked shut behind her. A wave of relief washed over me, bittersweet but undeniable. Maybe our friendship was over, but a part of me felt lighter like I’d finally shed a cumbersome weight.

Anjali might have called a few times after that, but I didn’t pick up. My life was quieter now, less dictated by the irritating behaviour of a one-sided bond. I found myself cooking for myself, enjoying the peace. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of a new kind of friendship, one built on mutual respect and genuine care.

I learned a valuable lesson: It’s okay to set boundaries, even with someone who used to be close. I missed the easy camaraderie of our initial friendship, but the constant undercurrent of jealousy had been a festering wound. Sometimes, letting go is the healthiest option for everyone involved.  It wasn’t easy. It felt like a weight had lifted.