Shelley and JB
When Shelley was 27 she went out with an Irishman (who she referred to as "JB" in her diary). Things were great to begin with, although even on the first date he displayed some traits that made her uncomfortable. Over the course of five or six months it became increasingly clear to her that the relationship was not going to work, but it seemed impossible to extract herself - his family adored her (and she was very fond of his nieces and nephews), his friends thought she was the best thing since sliced bread, and he himself was determined to marry her (eventually).
One day it just got too much for her and she screamed at him, right in his face, that they were over, she didn't want to hate him but she couldn't love him, and to please just leave her alone to get her head back together. JB being JB, he interpreted this as meaning she didn't want to be engaged to him just at that time, and went on referring to Shelley as his girlfriend to his family and friends. Oh, and continued to call her up to ten times a day, and send cards and flowers, and hang around her work/home/local shops, and generally drive her insane.
One day she bumped into one of his friends on a train. They said hi and chatted for a bit, then the friend asked if things were okay between her and JB, because, well, she hadn't been seen with him lately. Shelley swore a bit and informed him that they'd broken up some two months earlier. She could not believe that he'd gone on telling people they were together. (Well, she could believe it, JB being JB, but she didn't have to be nice about it.)
After moving house and pointedly not giving him the new details, she finally thought she'd got rid of him, but, no, somehow he got hold of her new mobile number, and would call at odd hours (2am being a favourite) and ramble on about how he wished she'd "come to her senses" and let him give her the life she surely wanted. After a few weeks of this she'd send him to voicemail, and after a month or so of that, he gave up altogether.
Several months passed with no contact and she began to relax, spent less time worrying that he was stalking her, dared to date again. Then one day he called and left a message: he had a terminal illness and he was going to while away his final months in a rainforest somewhere because he didn't have a whole lot of faith in hospitals. She was skeptical at first - it could well be a trick to get her sympathy and/or a callback. A few days passed and he didn't call again, so she decided to see if the claim was genuine.
After speaking not only to him but a few of his friends (some of whom still thought she was an evil bitch for leaving him - goodness knows what he'd actually told them about her, because she wasn't game to ask) she went round to see him. He'd wanted her to write a eulogy for the funeral, and she felt it was inappropriate for her to do that, since she didn't particularly like him any more, and actually had no intention of going to the funeral or wake or whatever, seeing as at least two of his friends seemed to think a massive head injury would really suit her.
So then he wanted her to have some of his stuff. She picked out a few CDs. He wanted her to take more. She sighed, tried to be patient, explained she wasn't taking anything she knew she hated, knew she'd never listen to, or happened to already have, which didn't leave much beyond the ones she'd already chosen.
Then he wanted a hug. He was A Dying Man and this was the last time he'd see her, and she was a compassionate person, so she agreed, foolishly thinking that he knew her boundaries... so then she had a snivelling lump with a scratchy beard trying to burrow into her neck, telling her it loved her. Next he tried to seduce her, so she did what she had to to restore a suitable space between them (nearly injuring him in the process).
She looked down at him (he'd slid off the sofa onto the floor), smoothed her shirt, backed away (like in a horror movie, never take your eyes off it, even if you think you killed it already). She tried to keep her tone even: "Look, I'm sorry, but I can't be what you want me to be. Not even now. I won't be a hypocrite. I just won't. Not for you, not for anybody. I'm sorry you're dying; I would never have wished that on you. I hope you have a safe journey and find peace-of-mind or whatever it is you're looking for when you get there. I'm going now. I'll let myself out. Please... don't contact me again."
But he did, of course (JB being JB). A postcard. Wish you were here. "Glad I'm bloody not," she muttered, flicking it into the bin, and vowing to avoid Irishmen forever after.