There’s a fatigue that has no name. It’s not exhaustion from work, or the malaise of loneliness, or even the sharp pang of betrayal. It’s quieter than that—less visible. It shows up when you find yourself, once again, carrying a conversation you didn’t ask for, soothing a crisis that isn’t yours, or making space for someone who seems to take up all the air in the room. You know the moment it hits: a subtle contraction of the chest, a flicker of internal protest you immediately override. And so you nod, you listen, you stay a little longer, even when your body is telling you it’s time to leave.
These people aren’t villains. That’s what makes it harder. They’re not overtly cruel or even especially selfish. Some are charming. Some are wounded. Some are impossibly nice. But over time, their presence leaves you feeling more tired than seen, more burdened than connected. They are the emotional freeloaders of modern life—people who haven’t learned to metabolize their own discomfort, and so they pass it to you, without ever saying a word.
