It’s Friday. I can feel it in the air before I even see the message. It starts with a little buzz of energy around the office, a few more laughs than usual from the cluster of desks near the window. Then, my computer pings.
It’s the team chat.
**Sarah:** “Alright team, Friday lunch! Who’s in? I’m thinking we try that new taco place.”
The replies start flooding in, one after another. *”Yes!” “I’m starving!” “Perfect choice!”* The little notification sound, which used to be a source of anticipation, now just feels like a tiny, rhythmic tap on my shoulder, reminding me I’m not part of this.
I can see all of it. I see Mark suggesting they get a round of margaritas. I see Jessica asking if anyone wants to carpool. I’m sitting right here, ten feet away, watching a social event I’m apparently not a guest at being planned in real-time.
My heart starts doing this weird, heavy thump. I try to look busy, scrolling through an old spreadsheet, but my eyes keep flicking back to the screen. I take a breath. Maybe today is the day.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type, “Those tacos look amazing on their Instagram!” and hit enter before I can lose my nerve.
Silence.
The chat continues to move. Lisa writes, “Does anyone need a ride?” and three people reply instantly. My message just sits there, a little digital island in a sea of ignored text. A hot flush creeps up my neck. I feel so stupid. Why did I even try?
The clock ticks towards noon. The energy level rises. Chairs scrape back, jackets are pulled on. I keep my head down, staring intently at my screen as if I’ve just discovered the most fascinating email of my life. I can hear them gathering by the elevator bank.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here!”
“Who’s driving?”
Their voices are bright and full of Friday excitement. I don’t look up. I can’t. If I make eye contact, it will just be more awkward for everyone. I just listen to the sound of their footsteps fading down the hall, followed by the definitive *ding* of the elevator arriving.
And then, silence. The office is suddenly, profoundly quiet.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The performance is over. I push back from my desk and walk to the break room alone. I pull the sad salad I packed for myself out of the fridge and sit at the small, empty table.
I eat alone, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. I scroll through my phone, not really seeing anything. This has been happening for months. Every single Friday. It’s this quiet, persistent ache, this feeling of being a ghost in my own workplace. All it would take is one person to turn around and say, “Hey, you coming?” But no one ever does. And I’m left here, every week, wondering what it is about me that makes me so easy to forget.
