Friendship is supposed to be about mutual trust. Mine began with kindness, and ended with demands.

I was desperate for connection when I started university in a new city. Loneliness magnifies everything in those early weeks, so when a fellow student kept posting questions in our course group chat, I was the only one who replied. That small act of generosity turned into what I thought was a friendship.

She was from a developing nation, here on a scholarship. She confided in me about her father’s death, her family’s reliance on her income, her siblings' inability to find work, and her mother's inability to earn. I felt compassion, and in truth, relief at having someone to share the journey with.

At first, I gave what I could: notes, explanations, late-night calls, and even a small donation to one of her fundraisers. I didn’t expect her to give much back. I knew she was under enormous pressure. What I didn’t expect was how quickly generosity would be treated as an obligation or how surly and insulting she became when I declined to donate again.

The requests multiplied: souvenirs from my holiday, introductions to people with funding, and invitations to WhatsApp groups where strangers messaged me about “opportunities.” When I pushed back, I was called stingy. She mocked my degree result and gave little in return.

The clearest sign was the sheer number of fundraisers: three different GoFundMes appeared in the short time she was here, each framed as urgent and asking for support. What struck me wasn’t just the frequency but the expectation, as though it were natural that the people around her should continuously keep filling the gap.

When I told her to stop asking for souvenirs, she said it was “normal in her culture.” Yet none of her friends behaved that way, which made it clear this wasn’t cultural, but personal.

The imbalance went beyond money. I was focused on building a career in the UK; her visa restrictions meant work opportunities were scarce, usually limited to care-home shifts. She introduced me to her friends, who were also on scholarships, juggling financial strain. I tried to help them with their academic work, but the reciprocity was minimal. 

Worse still, they never really understood me. My neurodiversity was met with suspicion, as though it were a “con” to secure special treatment from the university. My struggles with anxiety and low mood were dismissed as negativity rather than recognised as genuine emotional challenges. Instead of empathy, I was met with disbelief. At the same time, my parents, worried about my isolation, urged me to be kind and keep trying. Their pressure made it harder to set boundaries, even as I felt the friendship souring.

Relationships struggle when they are built on unequal ground. When one person feels compelled to give, and the other feels entitled to receive, trust collapses.

Economic strain, cultural misunderstandings, and the pressures of supporting families back home all contribute to this dynamic. For many international students, the expectation to succeed academically while also sending money home creates an environment where friendships risk becoming transactional.

There was another layer too, one harder to name at first. It sometimes felt as though she viewed the West (and, in turn, me) as endlessly resourced, that support from me was something owed rather than offered.  When I declined to give more, she seemed less hurt than resentful, as though I were breaking an unwritten contract.

It is a mindset that does not arise in a vacuum. Centuries of extraction from colonised countries to wealthier nations have left a lasting sense that the so‑called “global North” has more than enough to share. That history creates complicated emotions around money and support, entitlement for some, guilt for others, which can turn toxic when played out inside a friendship. In this case, it showed up as an expectation that my support would continue automatically, as a given rather than a gift.

I have asked myself whether I should have been more careful. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that I had savings. Maybe I was naïve in confusing sympathy with reciprocity. But there is a difference between cultural missteps and outright exploitation. The casual insults, the repeated demands, and the lack of effort in return, I ignored these red flags for too long.

And so I came to a difficult conclusion: we were not on the same page. Our circumstances, and even our understanding of one another, were too far apart. Without mutual respect and reciprocity, no true friendship can grow.

This is not just a story of one friendship that soured. Universities know this terrain well. They recruit international students at high fees, offer limited scholarships, and enforce visa conditions that restrict paid work. Many are left under crushing financial pressure, while their peers enjoy the freedoms of early adulthood.

It is no surprise that some of these pressures spill into personal relationships. Yet universities rarely acknowledge how inequality, economic and historical inequality, shapes how students connect. “Integration” is too often discussed as a matter of cultural mixing, when in reality it is also about economic footing.

This whole situation taught me that kindness is not enough on its own. Boundaries matter. Offering emotional support does not mean shouldering financial responsibility. Reciprocity matters, too, not necessarily in money, but in respect, empathy, and shared effort. Without it, what may look like closeness becomes little more than a transaction.