When I was in my twenties, I dated this guy who was very much my type, but also really flaky. Hot and cold, he wanted the relationship but didn’t want the relationship. I really liked him and wanted the relationship, but he would change his mind a lot. It was annoying.
I hit my breaking point one day as I was going to visit my family for the holidays from the city, where I was living. I was sad and tired. Sad of him being a flaky pain in my butt. Sad of feeling neglected and also, on his back and forth path. Enough was enough. I wanted off his space cadet tour.
I told him I was done, but happy to be friends. I knew it wouldn’t be super easy to be friends, but I knew I would be happier and honestly, he had gotten on my nerves so much that I was at a point where I didn’t feel the same way about him. I lost the attraction for the most part, too. Being his friend worked for me. A few months after I told him I was done, he tried holding my hand when we went to a movie. I looked at him like, “WTF,” and told him “Nope.”
He stuck to the friendship boundaries for the rest of the friendship, but, still occasionally veered off track by flirting inappropriately or saying how he wished he had given me a real chance. I avoided all that nonsense because to me, I had put him in the friend zone. I had had enough. He had had his chance. Laura was done. He had regrets– and me? I had none.