That’s the cost of belonging, isn’t it? You shave off the parts of yourself that don’t fit, trade your voice for approval, learn to laugh at things that don’t amuse you—because if you hesitate? If you defend the wrong person, question the wrong truth, or blink at the wrong time—
Entry fee? Your dignity.
Monthly subscription? Your silence.
Cancellation policy? You become the target.
You don’t just walk out. You’re thrown out. And they make sure you never forget it.
At first, it feels like nothing. The pressure is subtle, hidden behind laughter, inside jokes, a little teasing. You tell yourself it’s normal, that everyone plays along, that standing out is worse than shrinking in.
“Don’t be so sensitive.”
“Come on, it’s just a joke.”
“If you don’t, someone else will.”
Because peer pressure isn’t just a cigarette in your hand or a dare whispered in your ear. It’s the slow, suffocating weight of expectation. The unspoken rule that you either blend in—or become the example.
So you do what they expect. Not because you want to. Because the alternative is worse.
Because in a group like this, there’s only one thing more dangerous than being the one laughing—being the one they laugh at.
And then, one day, the spotlight turns.
One day, it’s your name in their whispers, your flaws on display, your face in their smirks.
One day, the people you swore had your back? Nowhere to be found.
But they don’t just turn on you—they rewrite the story before you can.
“They’re being different lately.”
“I don’t know, they just bring so much drama.”
“It’s like they want to be the victim.”
And suddenly, you wonder—maybe they’re right.
Maybe you’re overreacting.
Maybe you’re difficult.
Maybe this is just friendship, and the problem isn’t them—it’s you.
That’s the real trick.
They tear you down until you break—and then, when you finally do, they smirk and say, “See? We told you.”
They twist your pain into proof.
Your anger into justification.
Your truth into delusion.
Because it’s easier to call you bitter than to admit they were cruel.
But here’s what they don’t want you to know—
You were never the problem. They were.
Because real friendships don’t demand suffering as the price of admission.
So let them talk. Let them twist the truth. Let them tell themselves whatever helps them sleep at night.
Because they don’t win.
You do.
Because you walked away by choice.
So, a toast—
To those who saw past the smiles, the silent cruelty, the games played with real lives.
To those who refused to keep paying the price of belonging.
To those who realized that real friends don’t ask you to bleed just to prove you’re worthy.
To freedom. To self-worth. To never again begging for a seat at a table where we were only ever meant to be the meal.
They don’t win. We do.
Because we got out.
