On recognising and responding to the artful extraction of value without reciprocity.

It starts innocently, almost beautifully.
A shared coffee, a helping hand, a long conversation that leaves me lighter. I tell myself, This is friendship.

For a while, it feels mutual — like the unspoken rhythm of two people who know how to give and take without counting. I help, they help. I listen, they listen. And I rest in the quiet belief that care is its own currency.

Then, small changes appear.
They come to me when they need something — advice, introductions, my time. They disappear when it’s my turn. They offer warm words, even lavish ones, but the warmth never seems to arrive when I need it most.

It’s not absence that hurts. Absence happens to everyone.
It’s the quiet realisation that their presence is transactional.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes this isn’t the sleepy neglect of abundance. Sometimes it’s intentional. A practiced art. Modern life even applauds it, dressing it up with pretty labels: “networking,” “leveraging connections,” “focusing on high-value interactions.”
It sounds efficient. It feels smart.
But when I’m on the receiving end, it feels like being a shelf someone reaches for only when they want something from it.

My first instinct is often self-doubt: Am I overthinking? Maybe I’m too sensitive.
But deep down, I know.

The challenge is — the moment I speak about it, I risk being seen as “difficult” or “closed.” Because in calling it out, I am disturbing an arrangement that works perfectly… for them.

So what do I do?

First, I name it to myself. There is a difference between forgetting to call and choosing not to call unless you need something.
Second, I match my availability to theirs. Not out of spite — but out of fairness to myself.
Third, I keep my best energy for the ones who pour something back. Kindness needs replenishment too.
And finally, I speak truth where the bond is worth saving, and step back where it isn’t.

Protecting my value is not arrogance.
Drawing boundaries is not hostility.
Refusing to be used is not unkindness.

Yes, some still call me “difficult.”
But I sleep with an intact self-respect.
And that, I promise myself, is far better than being the easy one who slowly disappears.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

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