Say you’re insecure about your cock. Your friends, aware of your negative spirals, are always supportive. You’re a good friend, so they don’t mind your habitual complaining, even if it clearly wears on them a little. You have the habit of finishing your rants with “whatever, it doesn’t bother me” and they kindly agree, pretending it doesn’t bother you either.

However, after years of carrying this insecurity, you gain perspective and decide it’s stupid to worry so much about your cock. It’s getting in the way of your life and you resolve to get rid of this brainworm. You spend a lot of time reflecting, and when someone’s cock gets complimented in a movie you’re quick to assure yourself the director isn’t mocking you and refocus on the movie. It still stings but you’re wearing away the pain, even if you’re not sure if you’re self-deceiving again.

You meet up with your friends for the first time in a while. You’re looking forward to it, it’ll be just like old times! You’re waiting for the subway with them and some company bought out all the advertising screens to sell “holsters for cock-normal men”. You freeze, but you’re fine, you’re handling this. You wrestle with your thoughts like a southern man using his whole body to force a catfish to submit. Surprisingly you feel it’s going pretty well, you didn’t think you’d made this much progress getting over your cock. Then one friend frowns slightly to mirror your feelings, and the other makes a comment about the subway delay in an obvious attempt to distract you.

Like good friends they’re accustomed to co-processing your emotions with you, but they’re reflecting feelings that aren’t in you anymore! You weren’t overwhelmed by insecurity; you were conquering it! Frustration heats your face as they misinterpret your tension. Hyperaware of your body language, you try to appear relaxed, but you’re sure you only look more tense.

They’re seeing you spiralling negatively about your cock and are responding supportively as always. You need to clarify their misunderstanding.

You open your mouth. “I’m fine, it doesn’t bother me, I’m over that shit.” But it comes out all wrong and it sounds bitter and insincere even to you. Flustered, you catch a brief, communicative glance between them. Fuck! You’ve just made things worse!

A train rushes by without stopping, and the ads switch to an animated collage of men wearing Italian leather pinch-tipped holsters.

“Hey, wanna get high and play 2k at my place after?” one friend suggests.

“Is Jessica gonna be okay with that?” you ask.

He waves the concern off, “It’ll be fine.”

It won’t be. Jessica’s brother died in a weed accident so she despises the stuff, and she loathes her boyfriend getting high and hosting stoner game nights. The last invitation, six months ago, ended in you staring at a pause menu while he got into a heated argument with her.

They look at you expectantly, eyebrows raised, like supportive parents. You hate this dynamic. In their minds, they’ve replayed the familiar script: you feel insecure, they sacrifice to support you, and now you owe them. You feel like your new identity has been shut down and you can’t even blame them.

You feel bitter and trapped, but you set those feelings aside because you don’t want to be a bad friend.

“Yeah, I’ll come,” you agree, convincing yourself it’ll be just like old times.