There is a peculiar pattern I have begun to notice in my life. It doesn’t arrive loudly or announce itself, but it repeats—quietly, predictably, almost ritualistically. Two people meet through me, they like each other, and they begin to spend time together—often without telling me, which, to be fair, is completely fine. Then something else happens. They get close, sometimes too quickly. They collapse the distance that usually takes time to build. They borrow familiarity—from me, from my space, from the comfort I have created—and convert it into intimacy. For a while, it feels effortless. Until it doesn’t. Because just as quickly as they come together, they begin to fall apart. And that is when I re-enter the story, not as a friend, not as someone they care about in that moment, but as a witness, a sounding board, a recipient of screenshots, accusations, name-calling, emotional debris. It is almost fascinating. When they were meeting, laughing, sharing time together, I was not required. But the moment things fracture, I become necessary. There is something deeply inconsistent about this behaviour. Joy is private, conflict is public. Connection is theirs, but consequence becomes mine. And I find myself wondering, quietly and without drama, what exactly my role is meant to be. If I am not needed in the making of the bond, why am I expected to hold its breaking? This is not about exclusion—I do not need to be invited into every interaction my friends have with each other, that would be absurd. But inclusion only in conflict is not friendship, it is convenience.

When people meet through a common friend, something subtle happens. They trust faster than they should, open up quicker than they normally would, feel safe not because of what they have built together but because of the environment they have stepped into. The intimacy is not entirely theirs, it is borrowed, and borrowed things often come with fragile foundations. So when disagreements arise—and they always do—there isn’t enough structure to hold them. The fall becomes inevitable. But instead of recognising the fragility of what they built, they reach for the one constant that existed before them, the person who introduced them, the person who in their minds must now mediate, interpret, absorb. What I am being asked to do, without ever being asked, is simple and impossible at the same time: take sides without appearing to, listen without reacting, validate without encouraging, care without becoming involved. Neutrality, in such situations, is rarely perceived as neutrality; it is often mistaken for betrayal. And so, slowly, something shifts. The space I created for connection begins to feel like a space of tension. My friendships begin to feel conditional, dependent on who is currently getting along with whom, and I, quite unintentionally, become collateral damage in relationships that were never mine to begin with.

There was a time I believed I could prevent this. I even had a rule—don’t hook up with people you meet in my space—because more often than not, it is that added layer, sexual or romantic, that accelerates everything: the bonding, the intensity, the eventual rupture. It seemed logical, almost protective. But rules like these do not hold. People will do what they want, connections will form where they are not meant to, and boundaries, unless they are internal, are rarely respected. So I let that rule go, not out of resignation but out of clarity. What I cannot control is who meets whom, and what I cannot prevent is what they choose to do with that meeting. But what I can decide, very clearly, is this: I will not be part of the aftermath. Not the screenshots, not the commentary, not the subtle attempts to recruit me into a narrative. If a relationship is built independently of me, then its conflicts must also be resolved independently of me. This is not indifference, it is discipline.

There is a certain kind of person who brings people together, who creates warmth, who allows others to feel comfortable enough to connect. It is a beautiful quality, but it comes with an unspoken cost. People begin to see you not just as a friend, but as a space, and spaces, unlike people, are expected to hold everything—joy, conflict, mess, resolution—without fatigue, without resistance. Perhaps the shift I need to make is not dramatic or loud, but precise. To move quietly from being the centre of these interactions to being simply a part of them. To remind people, without hostility, that I am not a mediator, not a judge, not a repository for unresolved emotions, just a friend. And like all friendships, this too must have boundaries. Because connection, when it is real, does not require a third person to sustain it, and conflict, when it is honest, does not need an audience to validate it. Everything else is noise.