You finally corner your friend to tell her about your diagnosis, and she interrupts three words in: "Oh my God, speaking of health, my Peloton instructor canceled class and I haven't worked out in *eight days*." You nod. She continues for twenty minutes. When she finally pauses to breathe, you say, "So anyway, the doctor said—" and she's already checking her phone. "Wait, did I tell you what my therapist said about commitment issues?" Yes. Last Tuesday. And the Tuesday before. You realize you're not actually friends; you're just her unpaid emotional support system with a pulse and a Netflix password she borrowed once.