When the text came to her phone, pinging like a clear bell in the finally silent house, she almost didn’t look at it. Whoever it was could wait until morning. These night time hours were precious—when she could draw, or paint, ink, stamp, glue, print, tape in peace. Amy finished the last stroke, letting the pen tip end in a flourish atop the stalk of golden grain on her page. She held up the drawing to the light, taking a moment to examine it, and feel her own pride swelling, before she carefully laid it down on the desk. She reached for her phone—she had left it on the bookshelf behind her—and saw that it was from Gabby.

                The good mood that she had carefully cultivated over the last hour in her studio melted when she saw the name on the screen. She opened her iMessages and read through what she knew would either be a request for help, or some kind of emotional breakdown that she did not have the energy nor patience to engage with.

                Hey! How are you? Do you have a screwdriver I can borrow? I need it to fix the handle on these cabinets that we hung in the garage. Aaron took his whole tool bag home so I don’t have anything to tighten up these screws.

                Go buy one, Amy thought to herself. She put her phone back on her shelf. She closed her eyes and tried to remember that moment of pride she had just a minute before. Before Gabby’s neediness and insecurity and incompetence and ineptness intruded into her perfect evening. The anger inside her would not settle. She picked up her phone and pulled up her messages with Andrew.

                How do you break up with a friend? She typed it out fast, her fingers fueled by a searing rage that was months in the making.

                I don’t think you do. I think you just ghost them. She could hear the flatness of his tone in the words on the screen. He would have raised one eyebrow if she had been there, an unspoken question lurking inside the expression. They had talked about Gabby before. How terrible she was for Amy’s mental health, because she was so oblivious to anyone else’s needs, desires, interests or insecurities. How Amy had to do so much hand holding to be her friend. How Amy had to take a backseat to what Gabby wanted when they were together. And how Gabby always needed something from her, but never gave her anything in return. She didn’t return favors. She didn’t want to. All she did was take. The entire relationship was for her benefit.

                That’s not working. She keeps texting me. Amy sighed, then got up from the desk. She pressed her forehead against the window of her in-home studio, looking at nothing in the darkness behind her house. None of her neighbors had exterior lights on at this time of night. There was a new moon, and the stars were hidden by patchy clouds and light pollution. It looked like the end of the world at her doorstep. The ping of another text drew her attention.

                Well, you keep answering her messages, even if it does take you a few days. Andrew was typing something else. The three blinking dots were like lasers into her eyes. She stared without blinking until the next message came through. Just ignore her.

                Just ignore her. How could she ignore someone who had taken up so much space inside her head?

                Amy returned to the desk, where she pushed aside the drawing that she had just completed, and turned to a new page in her sketchbook. She adjusted the neck of the desk lamp. She leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other before placing the heavy sketchpad on her lap. She let her hand move freely, not thinking. The whirlwind of annoyance calmed as she drew—each line like a cresting wave, or blooming flower, a sparkling star. She laid the pencil down on the desk and examined what she had drawn.

                A mess of blots and screws dotted the page, and in the middle, a simple line drawing of a woman with a short bob and big glasses yelling “how am I supposed to fix this?” At her feet lay a shattered vase and in her hand, she clutched a hammer. Amy smiled at the picture, a commentary on the tempestuous Gabby. Something was always wrong in her life, and usually, it was her own fault. But the smile did not last long. She was ready to be done with this relationship for good.

                She texted Andrew first. I think I just need to tell her. You know. Like I would if she were a guy.

                His reply came almost instantly. You mean, you actually are gonna break up with her?

                She hovered over the screen. There was a sea of concerns she could not name. She second guessed herself. She flipped over to Gabby’s message, and re-reading it. She almost typed out a reply, something benign like I’d have to find mine, or Just ask Aaron to bring his back, or I can’t get it to you this week. Then she thought of typing something she actually wanted to say. Screwdrivers are really cheap, so you could buy your own. Stop asking me for things. Don’t text me anymore.

                She didn’t text Gabby any of these things. She went back to her chat with Andrew. Yeah, I think I am gonna break up with her. She is an emotional vampire. She put her phone down on the desk, and her eyes fell to the drawing of the woman with the shattered vase. In the past, Amy would have helped Gabby pick up that vase, and glue it back together. But she could never take the hammer out of Gabby’s hand, and that was the real problem. Until Gabby decided to stop sabotaging her friendships with her inability to be self-aware, that vase would keep getting broken. Amy didn’t want to clean up the pieces of it anymore.

                Her phone pinged. She read Andrew’s response without picking up her phone, her face hovering over the screen so the camera would recognize her. I really wish I could just break up with Jeff. But I’ve invested too much in the friendship at this point I think.

The posture she had taken on made her feel like a crone. She sat up straight in the chair, and picked up the phone to reply. She typed out the message with one finger. He’s not the best friend imo but you have been friends a long time. Maybe it’s different. Now Amy was getting tired. Gabby didn’t even have to be in the room with her in order to suck all the life from her. Just the thought of having to interact with her was enough to make Amy feel like it was time to go to bed. She rubbed a hand over her face, wishing there was an easier way. She pulled up the chat with Gabby and stared at the blinking cursor in the new message. Hey she wrote, before she erased it.

She tidied up the studio—restacking papers on the shelves, putting away paint tubes, pouring out old coffee—before she turned off the light. She thought about Gabby, and how she used to feel like a kindred spirit. How had it gotten so bad? Had she just not seen the signs of narcissism and immaturity before? Or had something in herself changed. Was she the one who was in the wrong here? It didn’t feel like she was. Then why do I feel so bad about this?  

It was now 11 pm. She’d left all the lights on in the house when she went into the studio. She went through the house turning them off one by one, then pattered to the bedroom where she found the cat curled up on top of her pajamas. The whole bed to lay on, and the cat decided to lay on the one tiny section where she’d left her shirt. Amy shooed her away, then stripped down. Before she could redress she heard the ping of another text coming through. She picked up the phone from where she had tossed it on the bed.

Did you do it? She imagined Andrew chewing his nails for an hour waiting for a word from her. Her brother always wanted all her gossip.

No not yet. She pulled on the nightshirt and tossed her dirty clothes into the hamper. She was halfway through brushing her teeth, wondering what Gabby was doing, when she got the second text from her that she knew was coming. There was always a second text that made it seem like Gabby didn’t want to be an inconvenience, but it was always a disguise for her not wanting to do any work for herself. Gabby wanted a hand out, and she’d take it from anyone who was willing to give it to her.

If it’s easier, I can come get it from you tomorrow. That way you won’t have to drive out to my place.

Amy wanted to scream. What would be easiest was if Gabby bought herself a screwdriver and left her alone forever. This was how it had been since they first met. Can I borrow that book? Do you have an extra sweatshirt I can wear? Can you swing by the store on your way over? Can you give me a ride? Can you recommend a house sitter? A dog sitter? A vet? A plumber? Can you tell me which plants I should get? Can I come over? Can you bring me a few of those candies you like when I see you tonight? Can I come to your next book club? Can you bake me a loaf of bread? My friend needs a cake; can you make one? Take, take, take, take, take.

And yet, whenever Amy needed something, Gabby was never there. Oh sorry, I was on the phone. I was asleep. I have ADD. I was having a panic attack. I didn’t see your message. I was at work. I had a client. I was in a meeting. I was out with a friend. She never gave anything back.

As she furiously scrubbed her teeth clean, she knew it would never get better. She looked at herself in the mirror, how her face was a mask of anger—and hurt—over how this woman, who was supposed to be her friend had put an enormous strain on her by taking advantage of how compassionate and helpful she was. This was the problem with loving to help other people. Sometimes, you ended up in a toxic friendship that sucked away all your desire to help anyone. Amy finished brushing and slowly wiped her mouth. She continued to look at her reflection, relaxing her face until she could see herself and not her anger. She turned off the bathroom light, and then sat down on the edge of her bed.

Hey, actually, I have been meaning to talk to you about something. I don’t think this friendship is good for me. We can talk about this if you’d like. When she hit send her heart was beating like she had just run 12 miles.

Gabby’s response was instantaneous. Oh, that’s fine. No need to explain yourself. Sorry if I made your life hard.

Amy stared at the screen, wrestling with that part of herself that liked to keep everything smooth and comfortable for other people. Was it really that simple? Did Gabby really not need any explanation from her? Did she not care at all, or was this sarcasm? She laid her phone down, feeling relieved, and confused by that relief. But the confusion was short lived.

She lifted her phone again and texted her brother. I did it.

His reply too was instantaneous. Good. I’m proud of you.

She smiled to herself, reading over his words again. Why hadn’t she told the truth to Gabby months ago? It had been so easy, because a friend like Gabby never really cared what she thought anyway. Amy had a crawling feeling that she would just move onto the next person who liked to please other people, but she also recognized that was not her problem. She had cut Gabby loose, and now, she would never have to let her borrow things she didn’t intend to return, or listen to problems she had no intention of fixing, or complain about difficulties that were caused by her aggressively selfish behavior. She was free.

Yeah, I’m proud of me too. She ended the message with a smiley face.