While I Cancelled Plans to Save Money, My Friends Mocked Me – Blocking Them Saved Me $412 in a Month

I sat at the café table while my friends planned another expensive trip. I stared at the prices on the menu and felt sick. “You are in, right?” one of them asked with a grin. I forced a smile and felt pressure build in my chest as their laughter filled the space.

My friend, Leah, pointed at flight prices and said, “This is cheap for us.” I looked at her and wondered when “us” stopped including people like me.

I checked my banking app and muttered, “I am not sure.” She raised an eyebrow and said, “Come on, you always manage.”

They kept talking about hotel suites and new outfits while I stared at the door. “This is getting ridiculous,” I whispered under my breath.

Another friend asked, “What did you say?” and I looked down at my hands. I asked myself if silence kept the peace and wondered how long I could pretend.

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I remember meeting my friends at the university, sunlight slanting across our crowded table. We sat together every day and shared whatever we had.

We traded snacks, argued about strict professors, and laughed at our own exhaustion. Those long nights felt endless, yet strangely comforting.

I once asked Mara, "Do you think we'll stay friends forever?" and she smiled and said, "Of course. We never drift."

Those early years felt rich with connection. When Jen got her finance job, she called and said, “I got it. We must celebrate.” We bought cheap wine and toasted in a tiny flat, and I believed we would support each other through every change ahead.

After graduation, I joined a nonprofit with a small salary. I felt proud of the work, but I struggled to cover bills.

Mara said with a grin, “At least you save the world,” and I laughed even though the joke stung.

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I worked long hours and picked up freelance reporting to stay afloat. I cancelled evening plans to rest or finish deadlines. They noticed, but not kindly.

Jen messaged one night, "Sushi tonight? You in?" and I replied, "I need to skip. Rent is due." She answered, "You worry too much. Live a little," and I wished she understood my situation.

We still met often, and I listened as they talked about partners and career changes. I rarely shared my concerns because I felt too different.

Mara asked once, “Why so quiet?” and I said, “Work drains me. I feel tired.” She shrugged and told me, “You always handle everything,” and that sentence revealed how they saw me.

The group leaned on me when they needed emotional support. Jen once dropped her bag at a café and said, “Tom forgot our anniversary,” and I listened while she explained the whole argument.

She said, “You always know the right thing to say,” and I smiled while wondering who asked how I was.

I never offered my struggles because I feared dismissal. The pattern repeated as they brought problems, and I brought calm replies.

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I enjoyed helping, but something shifted. I wanted friendships that flowed both ways, and I felt guilty even thinking that.

Pressure grew when weekend plans became expensive. Mara sent a cabin link and wrote, “Weekend trip. Who’s coming?” I stared at the price and typed, “I cannot afford that right now,” my fingers tight around the phone.

Mara replied, “Stop thinking about money. We just want fun.”

Jen added, “Come on, Leah. Live a little.” My cheeks burned. “I work long hours. I must save. My budget is tight,” I explained.

Mara sent a laughing emoji. “We just tease.” But lately, I felt like several friends assumed I was fine being quiet and broke. They expected I wouldn’t complain about expensive plans.

Messages kept piling. "Oh, Leah's in budget mode again," Jen joked. Mara rolled her eyes. "You're too sensitive, Leah," she said. My stomach twisted. I wanted to argue, but guilt froze me.

I set my phone down and listened to the fridge hum. It felt loud against the quiet, pressing against my temples. I avoided conversations, letting messages pile up without replies. They planned outings while my voice faded.

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One Friday, we met for dinner. I walked inside, chest tight, and scanned the menu.

Warm lighting fell on polished tables, but the prices tightened my stomach.

Mara leaned over. “Budget mode again?” she asked with a smirk. Jen laughed. “We should start a charity.” My face flushed as a couple glanced over. “I just want something I can afford,” I said.

Mara waved her hand. “You can pay later. We want you here.” Her tone felt like uncomfortable sympathy. I ordered something small. The leather seat stuck slightly to my legs, the chatter pressing against my temples.

Jen leaned forward. “We’re planning a Maldives holiday. Costs a lot, but worth it.” Mara smirked. “We can send Leah a postcard.” I forced a small smile and sipped cold water, condensation chilling my fingers.

Things worsened the following week. Mara invited everyone to an expensive rooftop bar. “You have no excuse this time. We all need a night out,” she messaged.

I stared at the screen. “I cannot keep spending like this,” I typed. Mara replied, “Just budget better.” Jen chimed in, “Come on. We work hard. We deserve enjoyment.”

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“I am working hard too. I just get paid less,” I wrote. Mara answered, “Not our fault,” and added a winking emoji. My chest tightened. I typed and deleted messages, not wanting to explode.

I went anyway, guilt pushing me. The bar was loud, music blaring, the scent of cocktails and perfume thick in the air. Mara waved me over. "There you are. We thought you bailed again." Jen laughed and tapped her glass.

I tried to enjoy myself, but conversations circled back. Jen said, “My bonus came in. We might extend the Maldives trip.” Mara smirked. “You should start a GoFundMe.”

I stared at her. “You realise that hurts, right?” Mara raised her eyebrows. “You are too sensitive,” she said.

“I am trying my best,” I said. Mara sighed. “Everyone struggles. We manage.” Her words hit like a slap. I stood and walked to the bathroom, hands shaking as I leaned against the sink.

I stared at myself in the mirror. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. “Why am I doing this to myself?” I whispered.

Later, I paid my share and walked home alone. City lights shimmered across the pavement, cold wind biting my cheeks. I hugged my coat tighter.

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Messages popped up. Mara: “You disappeared fast.” Jen: “We were joking. Lighten up.” I typed, “I need space.” Mara: “Drama queen,” with rolling-eye emojis.

I locked my phone, climbed into bed, and stared into the dark, wondering how friendship became something that made me feel small.

Everything changed two days later. I opened our group chat to check a message from Jen. Instead, I saw part of a conversation I was not meant to see.

Mara wrote, “Leah is useful as a sounding board, but not fun.” Jen responded, “She always listens, so we vent there. She handles it.” Another friend added, “She would never cut us off. She needs us.”

I froze. My chest tightened, and my hands went numb. The words stabbed with clean accuracy.

Mara continued. “She is support. Not someone we plan real adventures with.” Jen replied with a laughing emoji and wrote, “Exactly.”

I whispered, “Support? Not a friend?” The room stayed silent and cold. My pulse thudded in my ears.

I scrolled further. Mara wrote, “She will stay because where else is she going?”

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My breath hitched, and I blinked back sharp tears.

Just then, I received a message from an old number. It was Jaden from the university. He said, “Long time. I could use someone to talk to.”

We had not spoken in years. I typed, “Are you okay?” He replied, “Rough patch. You are the only person I thought might care.”

His words landed hard. I said, “I am here. Tell me what is going on.” He called, and his voice sounded exhausted.

“I lost my job,” he said. "My landlord raised the rent. Everyone disappeared when things got hard." I listened while he explained debt and panic and loneliness.

He paused and asked, “Sorry, am I dumping too much?” I said, “No. You are talking to someone who understands.” He laughed softly and said, “You always were the steady one.”

I sighed. “Sometimes steady feels like invisible,” I admitted. He said, “Not to me.”

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We talked for nearly an hour. I felt something I had not felt in months: seen. He thanked me before hanging up.

I lay back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling. I heard distant traffic outside my window, and the sound felt grounding. I whispered, “At least one person values me.”

I picked up my phone again and looked at the group chat. I scrolled through their comments and read them slowly. My heart hurt, but my mind cleared.

They did not see me as a whole person. They saw what I offered: emotional labour and patience. I realised I could not continue like that.

The next week, I stepped back from the group. I stopped answering every message. I muted the chat and focused on work and rest.

Mara sent, “Where are you? We need you in the group chat.” I typed, “I need space right now.” She replied, “You are overreacting.”

Jen added, “We did nothing wrong.” I closed the phone and let their words sit untouched. I made tea and let the steam warm my face.

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Jaden messaged that evening. “Walk after work?” he asked. I agreed, and we met near a quiet park.

He looked tired but grateful. “It means a lot that you showed up,” he said. I smiled and replied, “I needed someone who sees me.”

We walked slowly. Leaves rustled beneath our shoes. Cool air carried the smell of rain.

He asked, “Are you okay?” I said, “Not really. I realised my friends do not value me.” He nodded and said, “Then they are not friends.”

His honesty felt sharp but comforting. I said, “I am scared to walk away.” He replied, “Being alone is better than feeling unseen.”

A day later, Mara requested a video call. I almost declined, but I needed closure. I answered and saw her face appear on the screen.

She crossed her arms and asked, “Are you done sulking?” I inhaled and kept my voice calm.

“I am hurt,” I said. “You talk about me like I am useful, not important.” Mara blinked and said, “We just talk. Do not take everything seriously.”

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I shook my head. “Your words mattered. They told me how you see me.” Jen joined the call and frowned.

Jen said, “You know we care.” I answered, “Sometimes care must look like respect.” Neither of them spoke.

I continued, “I am not asking to cut you off.”

"I am asking for basic consideration." Mara sighed and said, “We can try, but you are sensitive.”

I accepted that small answer and did not argue further. I realised change might not come, but at least I had spoken.

I ended the call feeling lighter, not because they understood fully, but because I finally stood up for myself.

I stopped chasing invitations and stopped drowning in guilt. I started spending time with people who appreciated me.

I learnt something simple and painful: friendship survives when everyone is seen. I was giving support without receiving any in return.

I do not blame them entirely. People rely on the person who always carries the weight. People forget the weight exists.

I stayed because I wanted to keep the history alive. I thought leaving meant failure. I thought silence kept the peace.

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Instead, silence broke me. I spent months holding in exhaustion, frustration, and fear. I pretended everything was fine because that was my role.

I realised something when I read their messages. They did not see me as struggling. They saw me as unshakeable and available.

Jaden reminded me that I deserve better. He showed me that real connection cares, listens, and asks back. He showed me that I am worth reciprocity.

I now protect my energy. I save money without shame. I choose time with people who look at me and actually see me.

And there is peace in that. I do not have a large group anymore. I have smaller, stronger connections that feel honest. I learnt one final thing: sometimes walking away is not dramatic. Sometimes it is necessary.

And I ask myself now: how many people stay in friendships that drain them because they fear change?

This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.

Source: YEN.com.gh