Plead Till The Fifth

It’s always, “It’s not you.” Life is unfair. The world is a cruel place. And honestly, I can’t argue with that. Things happen that defy logic—unjust, arbitrary things. I believe in bad luck.

But then there are moments like this—moments of startling clarity—when I realise I’ve come full circle. And in this particular moment, I‘ve come to know for certain now: it‘s not the world. It‘s me.

This thought isn’t revolutionary—a groundbreaking epiphany. In fact, it’s an experience so ordinary it teeters on the edge of cliché. Things don’t work out: jobs slip away, relationships falter, friendships fade. Hell, a bad breakup will do it to anyone. I’m sure at some point in your life, you’ve stood in front of the mirror, heartbroken yet again, whispering, “It’s me. I’m the problem. I’m unlovable.” But it’s probably not the truth. Not in your case. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

It simply wasn’t meant to be. I used to tell myself the same thing. When something fell apart, I murmured the mantras: It’s not me, it’s just bad luck. Everything happens for a reason. The reason, I insisted, was timing or circumstance. 

After all, if it is not my fault, I can shield myself from the true sting of failure and the more pressing question: Why am I consistently the common denominator in all of this?

But with each occurrence, the reasoning grew increasingly flimsy. Those mantras begun to resemble little more than excuses—rationalisations for my apparent failure to belong.

You can find yourself surrounded by good people—wonderful, kind, well-meaning people. People who seem to care for you, and whom you care for in return. And yet, you don’t belong. Not fully. You’re there, but you’re not part of it. Maybe it’s chance. Maybe it’s fate. Either way, you’re on the outside looking in.

The first time, you tell yourself it was the wrong group, a misalignment.

The second time, you brush it off as bad luck.

The third time, doubt creeps in. Is this a divine plan? Really what God has set out for me? (Not that I’m religious. Though perhaps I should be—it might offer some relief from the self-recrimination.)

By the fourth, you’ve had enough. The phrase “not meant to be” starts to feel flimsy, a shallow excuse with no weight behind it. A delusion. It no longer soothes; it only frustrates. And so, for the first time, you really start to wonder: Am I the one at fault? You change, adapt, and try again.

But here’s the truth: the fifth time is no charm.

At seven pm on Sunday evening, this hit me like a punch to the gut—another cliché, I know, but it’s accurate. The truth does indeed hurt like a clenched fist driven hard into your internal organs.

There wasn’t any real issue—at least not before I had the startling moment of clarity. It was just a bad day, and bad days happen.

But I‘ve never coped well with bad days.

I told Zara this. You have to talk, Ella. Get it out! Buy a journal, write it down. I hate writing, I told her. Besides, it doesn’t help. Call a friend, she said. 

Well, you can tell her I tried.

The first call rung out as I expected. So did the second. Well, that’s okay. I stared blankly at my deceivingly long contacts list. I‘m sure I have more options. I clicked onto my favourites list, composed of six contacts. 

Six contacts. This is where my startling moment of clarity began.

The sinking feeling. The realisation. The embarrassment and shame of discovering that, at seventeen years old—the so-called peak of your teenage years—your total friend count is six.

How I failed to notice this before then is still beyond me. Denial, maybe. Selective memory. Who knows.

Six doesn’t sound too bad on paper. But, Zara, let me break it down for you.

First, take away the two who are dating because they’re practically fused at the hip. A single entity at this point. They sit together in class, share a chair at parties, and finish each other’s sentences. They’re never really available unless you count being a third wheel as friendship, which I don’t.

Then there are the two I’m only friends with by association—part of some larger friend ecosystem I’m orbiting but not actually a part of. I’d never message them directly or ask to hang out one-on-one. They wouldn’t either. We’re friends by circumstance, nothing more. Let’s face it—if it weren’t for the “friends of friends” buffer, they’d never bother with me.

Now we‘re left with two.

Two so-called best friends who lead lives far more exciting and interesting than mine. Two best friends who probably don’t even rank me as their best friend. Two best friends who are part of a bigger, shinier, exclusive group that I‘m not, and will never be, invited into.

And yet, I kept telling myself I mattered to them. I clung to the belief that I fit somewhere, even on the edges. But then comes the final blow: you can take them away, too. Because the truth is, they don’t see me as a friend—not really.

How should I put it? Responsibility? Obligation? Guilt? No, it’s worse than that. It’s pity. And if there’s one thing more crushing than being alone, it’s realising that someone stayed—not because they cared, but because they were afraid of what might happen if they didn’t.

So, there you have it. None. Not a single person. And yes, Zara, it’s humiliating.

That was my fifth time. There won’t be a sixth.

It is peculiar how one can avoid confronting the truth for such an extended period, continually deflecting the issue with various excuses and justifications. However, eventually, the truth becomes impossible to ignore. One can plead the fifth once, twice, three times, even four. I did. Each time, I reassured myself that the fault did not lie with me—that things simply did not align, that external factors were always to blame. I pleaded until the fifth time, and now, I cannot plead anymore.

I am assuming responsibility for my actions—others will no longer be burdened with the responsibility for me. These are the kinds of qualities people like Zara should encourage. I know she won’t, but she should be pleased.

Earlier, I said you could tell Zara I tried. Call your friends, Ella. You have to talk, get it out. Well, I did what she said. I tried.

But you know what? Don’t bother telling her after all. She’s been addressed here plenty. I’ll write this all down—word for word, pen to paper. Then I’ll fold it up, leave it on my desk, and you can let her read it for herself.

She’ll get the picture.