how to get over a friendship breakup

There they were—my two former closest friends—together, surrounded by people I recognized. It’s been years since everything fell apart, but seeing them like that still hits in a way I can’t explain.

A few years ago, I lost both friendships. Each one ended in its own messy way, and nothing was really settled. I still find myself thinking about them, about the memories we shared, and I keep wishing I’d done things differently. It’s embarrassing to admit how much I still care, especially since it seems like they’ve moved on without looking back.

The breakups hurt more than I expected. I’m not sure if it’s the friendships themselves I miss, or the way losing them made me feel about myself. My self-esteem took a beating. I’m not as quick to trust or connect with people as I used to be, and sometimes I wonder if that’s what really lingers—the damage to my sense of trust, not just the loss of the friends.

They’re still best friends with each other. I see it in those photos that mutual friends post. I’m not sure if I should stop looking at those updates. Part of me thinks avoiding them would just be running away, but seeing them always brings everything back. It never feels good, but I haven’t stopped.

Since then, I’ve made other friends. I try hard not to compare, but it happens anyway. Even when I tell myself not to, I catch myself measuring new friendships against the ones I lost. It’s like a habit I can’t break, even though I know it doesn’t help.

I feel silly for holding onto these feelings. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else has gone through this, or if it ever really gets better. I don’t know if I should be trying to get over it, or if this is just something I’ll have to live with—a kind of ache that comes and goes.

The question keeps coming back. Years later, I’m still not sure if the pain will ever fade, or if this is just what it means to live with something unresolved.

The bell had just rung for first period, and there he was, sliding into the chair next to mine like always. For years, that was our routine—side by side, every day at school, talking about everything. He once turned to me, half-laughing, and said,

“You’re my sister from another mister.”

It stuck with me. That’s how I thought of us: family, not just friends.

A year ago, everything started to change. He got a girlfriend—his first. I was genuinely happy for him, but I noticed something different right away. His girlfriend seemed wary of me. I never heard her say anything, but it was there, in how they acted when I was around.

After that, our friendship started to loosen. We didn’t talk as much. The easy closeness we had just wasn’t there anymore.

I felt stuck. I wanted to keep our friendship the way it was, but I didn’t want to be a source of worry for his girlfriend. At the same time, I kept thinking about how I’m planning to leave the country in two years. That thought lingered in the back of my mind.

Still, I couldn’t find a way to fix it. I decided to keep my distance, even though it hurt. I told myself to just suck up the pain.

My heart felt deeply hurt by all of it. I kept thinking about how we used to be—how we shared everything, how it felt like nothing could change us.

But now things are different. Our friendship has loosened, and I am just trying to live with that.

I know that friendships can evolve and dissolve, and that this is part of life. It’s a pain I feel every day.

I don’t know if anyone else has gone through this. I wonder if there’s something I’m not seeing, or if it just has to be this way.

His voice cut through the chatter at the table. He looked at me and my girlfriend and asked which of us was the "guy" in the relationship.

I tried calling him out, but my best friend just said, “Just laugh, he’s joking.” For her sake, I let it go.

He didn’t stop. “A friend of mine is looking for a threesome,” he said, and then, “All you need is the right guy to straighten you out. You’d be dickmatized.” I was disgusted, but every time I tried to push back, my friend insisted I was overreacting and just didn’t get his humor.

The “jokes” kept coming, each time chipping away at my patience. Then he called me a dyke. I admit I lost it and yelled at him. My friend got upset with me for raising my voice at her boyfriend.

After that, she ignored my attempts to reach out. I called, I messaged—nothing.

On my birthday, she showed up at my place. I was happy to see her, thinking maybe things would go back to normal, maybe she was bringing a gift. Instead, she handed me a box filled with things I’d given her over the years.

“We need to take a break,” she said. “As long as you’re jealous of R having my attention, I can’t be your friend.”

I tried to explain. “I’m not jealous, he’s a bigot.”

She shook her head. “You’re just being sensitive. It’s not his fault you’re gay.”

I was too upset to argue. I told her she was right, that we shouldn’t be friends. She left, and I broke down.

Since then, I’ve been a wreck. It honestly hurts worse than any romantic breakup I’ve been through. I keep replaying everything, wondering if I ever really knew her at all. The routines, the trust, the sense of having someone who understood me—gone. Now there’s just the box she returned and the silence she left behind.

She was sitting across from me, her eyes bright, talking about the guy who’d just moved into her building—how he pursued her until she agreed to go out with him. She seemed happy, almost glowing, and spent a lot of time gushing about him.

It wasn’t always like this. For over a decade, we’d been best friends. When she had her breakdown a few years ago, she cut everyone else out, but I stayed. We talked every day. I’d help her sort through her feelings, steer her away from unhealthy thoughts. We got especially close then. Once, I asked if she’d ever think about reaching out to old friends who’d been asking about her. She told me she didn’t think she had the energy to keep up more than one relationship at a time, and even that was hard for her.

Lately, our contact had dwindled. I’d be lucky to get a text from her in a week. I went over to her place because I was worried—worried about her, and about this new guy.

She seemed so happy, talking about him. I told her I was proud of her, that I wanted to see her dating again, but I asked if she could try a little harder to keep in touch.

Her face changed. She got defensive.

“You know what I’m like. Why can’t you just be happy for me?” she said.

Then she accused me of wanting her all to myself, even if it meant she would end up alone. That stung. I reminded her of everything I’d done for her—how I was there for her recovery, how I’d dealt with things this new boyfriend hadn’t even seen.

She flipped out. She screamed at me to leave.

A few hours later, she messaged me. She said she wasn’t going to cut me off, but she didn’t want my help anymore. She’d talk to me when she wanted to, and I would just have to accept it.

Now, our daily contact is gone. Rare texts, if anything. I’m left hurt, not sure what our friendship is anymore, or if it can ever go back to what it was.

The first time it happened, I was the one who ended it. Years of friendship, and then I made the decision, and that was that. This was new for me. In my twenties and early thirties, friendships just faded. There was never an official ending, just two people quietly letting go, no words needed, no confrontation.

But this year, I had two friendships end directly—one I started, and one that blindsided me. They weren’t connected. The women didn’t know each other. These were both years-long friendships, and neither ended the way I was used to.

The second one was the shock. There was no warning. I didn’t see it coming.

I started searching for advice, because I didn’t know what to do with the loss. I found endless articles and guides for romantic break-ups—what to say, how to process it, when to move on. But when it came to friendships, there was almost nothing.

Now, I’m still trying to process it. I keep looking for advice, but I haven’t found anything that really fits. I’m left with the loss of two long-term friends, and the question of what to do with it. I’m still searching for a way to handle these endings.

The phone rang while I was sorting through emails, and I saw his name flash on the screen—my best friend, the one I’d met years ago gaming online. We always called, every day, to tell each other the small things and the big things, to keep the thread of our friendship tight across state lines.

I could picture us: the first time we met in person, travel bags slung over our shoulders, both grinning at the airport arrivals like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d met my boyfriend, my family, my friends. I’d met his. There was no part of my life he hadn’t been woven into.

There was also the part most people didn’t know. When we were both single, we’d sleep together. We always agreed it wasn’t romantic, just fun. It was our secret, but not a secret from my boyfriend. He knew, and it wasn’t an issue for him.

My friend had never really had much luck with women. He was always trying different dating sites, but nothing stuck. Then, about a month ago, he told me he’d met someone on a Christian dating site—Brenda. He was convinced she was the one. He talked about marrying her. I warned him not to rush, but I was glad he was happy.

Before Brenda came into the picture, we had planned a vacation—me, my boyfriend, my friend, and maybe this new girl if things went well. After three weeks of dating, my friend asked Brenda if she wanted to join us. She said yes. I was looking forward to meeting her, to having everyone together.

A few days ago, my friend called. His voice was tight, not like usual. He said Brenda had asked if he and I had ever been romantic. He told her the truth: that we’d slept together before, but it was never about feelings. Just fun.

Brenda’s response was to give him an ultimatum: block me and my boyfriend immediately or she would break up with him.

Within an hour, he messaged me. He said he was choosing her, that we could never talk again. Then he blocked me and my boyfriend on every platform. Years of friendship, gone in an instant.

Now, my boyfriend and I are scrambling—trying to cancel flights, get hotel refunds, fix our work schedules. The vacation, which was supposed to happen in two weeks, is off. The daily calls are over. I keep replaying everything—how quickly it all ended, how little our friendship seemed to matter when it came down to it.

Later, I learned Brenda had called me a "worthless w****" and said being friends with me would go against their religion, along with other things about my appearance. I can’t get those words out of my head.

I don’t know if he’ll ever reach out again. I can’t stop wondering what our friendship really meant to him, if it was as important as I thought. For now, all I can do is deal with the aftermath and try to make sense of how it all disappeared so suddenly.

I drifted off to sleep and there she was again. Almost every night since the falling out, I’d find myself dreaming about her—my best friend for fourteen years. In those dreams, we’d talk and hang out just like we used to. It always felt so real. The comfort of it would linger for a moment after I woke up, before the loss returned.

It’s been nearly a year since we stopped speaking. The end of our friendship left a kind of emptiness I wasn’t prepared for. I’ve been through romantic breakups before, but this is different. This is worse.

Some nights, the dreams are just us in conversation, like nothing ever happened. Sometimes it’s laughter, sometimes we’re just sitting together in silence that feels safe. I wake up and for a split second, I almost believe it’s possible to go back.

During the day, I think about reaching out. I’ll catch myself staring at my phone, feeling the urge to send a message or open up a chat window. But I don’t. I know things wouldn’t be the same. The friendship we had is gone, and I can’t see a way to restore it. The thought of trying and failing keeps me from sending that first word.

The grief has stuck with me, shadowing my days and filling my nights with reminders of what I lost. I keep waiting for it to fade, but it’s still sharp, still present, even after all this time.

No contact. No resolution. Just the ache of missing someone who was once everything, and the question that hangs over each day—will it ever get better?