Life in the Friend Zone

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes with being the “safe guy.”
The one women say they trust, admire, open up to, call “kind,” “sweet,” and “safe.”
The guy they tell everything to—except that they love him.

I’ve lived there. I still do, sometimes.
And I won’t lie: it messes with your head.

It’s not that I only see women as romantic prospects.
Far from it. I love women. I value their perspectives, their presence, their friendship.
But when you connect deeply with someone, and they become your person—your emotional touchstone—it’s hard not to want more.

The world has taught us that closeness equals romance. So when you get emotionally close, and the door to anything more is closed and locked, it can feel like a rejection of your whole self—even when it isn’t.

But here’s where I differ from a lot of guys who find themselves in this spot:
I don’t walk away angry.
I don’t see friendship as some booby prize.
And I don’t think anyone owes me love just because I showed up with mine.

I stick around—not because I’m waiting to be chosen, but because I genuinely care.
And because women are amazing. Funny. Deep. Brilliant. Wildly underestimated.
I feel safe with them in ways I rarely feel with other men.

But that closeness has its own cost.
And sometimes, it’s brutal.

I’ve been that friend who shows up with a care package after a breakup, who texts good luck before a job interview, who remembers birthdays, who listens to their dreams and fears and daily dramas—and then watches them fall in love with someone else.

I’ve watched women I love marry men I’ve never even met.
Sometimes I get a text about it.
Sometimes I don’t.

I don’t think people understand what it’s like to feel close to someone who treats you like a secret. Or worse—an emotional crutch they lean on until something shinier comes along.

But I keep choosing love over bitterness.
Even when it hurts.
Even when I don’t know what I’m still holding on to.

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And Then There’s the Incel Lie

I understand how men get radicalized.

You’re young, you’re isolated, you’re rejected, and nobody gives you a blueprint for how to live with it. Nobody shows you how to metabolize that pain. So you turn to online voices that validate your bitterness. You find comfort in the idea that it’s not your fault—it’s hers. Or theirs. Or the world’s.

That’s the core lie of the incel movement:
That you’re broken because no one picked you.
That women are prizes, not people.
That being overlooked means you’ve been wronged.

But here’s the truth—
Pain is not a license for cruelty.
And feeling invisible doesn’t give you the right to erase someone else’s agency.

I’ve been in that place of spiraling loneliness.
I’ve felt gutted by rejection.
I’ve wanted to disappear because I didn’t think I mattered to anyone.

But turning that pain outward? That doesn’t fix it.
All it does is make you a weapon you were never meant to be.

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A Different Path

You don’t need to “win” someone’s love to prove your worth.
You don’t need to dominate the conversation to be heard.
You don’t need to climb out of loneliness by pulling someone else down.

What you need—what we all need—is a better story to live by.

One that says masculinity isn’t built on silence and stoicism.
One that says it’s okay to feel lost sometimes.
One that says you’re allowed to want love, even if you don’t have it yet.

And most importantly:
You are not broken because you are alone.
You are not less of a man for being soft, for feeling deeply, or for walking away when something hurts too much.

The world doesn’t need more bitterness.
It needs more men brave enough to choose compassion, even when they’re hurting.
More men who stay, even when connection isn’t easy.
More men who believe in love, even when it hasn’t arrived yet.

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Where I Am Now

I wish I could say I’ve made peace with everything.
That I’ve transcended the longing and frustration.
That I’ve stopped checking my phone, hoping for some version of her that feels like she used to be.

But I haven’t.

The truth is, I’m still hurting.
Kate was—is—one of the most important people in my life.
But that connection got complicated. I loved her. Maybe I still do, in a way. And she’s getting married to someone else. Fast. Quietly. Without including me in that part of her life at all.

I’ve spent mornings waking up to her texts, thinking maybe things were okay, only to feel erased by the silence that followed. It’s like being offered a piece of your favorite song… then left waiting forever for the next note.

I asked for space. I begged for clarity. What I got was a slow, painful realization:
Whatever version of me she once made space for—I’m no longer that person in her life.

And the ache of that is real.
It’s not “entitlement.” It’s not “toxic masculinity.” It’s grief.

But I’m trying not to let that grief rot into resentment.
I’m trying to grow around it, like a tree around a wound.

What I don’t want to become is another man who lets pain fester until it curdles into hate.
Because I’ve seen where that path goes—and it’s not where I want to live.

So this is where I am:
A little bit lost.
Still writing.
Still trying.
Still waking up each day and trying to live like I deserve to be here.

And if you’re in the friend zone too—hurting, healing, holding on—I see you.
You’re not alone.
Not here.