Work Friends, Maybe

I never imagined I’d feel this kind of quiet loneliness in a room full of people I called friends.

Every morning, I arrive at the office earlier than most of them. The building still half-asleep, lights flickering on one by one, the hum of the air-conditioning barely keeping up with the heat outside. Corporate work isn’t as glamorous as others think it is, stacks of documents, constant deadlines, requests that never seem to end, but I’ve made peace with it. Or at least, I thought I had.

I’ve been here for as long as I remember. They came later into my life, my work friends. Younger, lighter, louder. They filled the office with laughter, with complaints, with stories from weekends I no longer had the energy for. At first, I found comfort in them. They called me “Ate,” sometimes jokingly, sometimes with a kind of dependence that made me feel needed.

But there are days when the laughter feels like background noise to something I don’t quite understand.

“Ang dami na naman, grabe,” one of them would say, dropping a thin stack of papers on their desk as if it were the weight of the world.

I would glance at my own desk, files stacked high, multiple folders open, deadlines overlapping like waves crashing into each other. There are moments when I want to say something, to point out the obvious difference, to ask if they’ve even noticed. But I don’t.

Instead, I nod. I say, “Oo nga, ang dami nga,” even if my hands are already moving faster, trying to catch up with everything waiting for me.

I tell myself that maybe they just see things differently. Maybe workload isn’t measured the same way for everyone. Maybe it’s not a competition.

So I try to understand. I always try.

I listen when they vent. I help when they’re confused. I double check their outputs. Sometimes, I even take on extra work quietly, just so things move faster, just so no one gets reprimanded.

And still, there’s this nagging feeling.

The kind that creeps in slowly, almost unnoticeable at first. Like when they suddenly stop talking when I approach. Or when they exchange glances I can’t quite read. Or when I hear laughter from their side, softer now, contained.

One afternoon, I accidentally saw it.

Not directly, no one showed it to me, but I caught a glimpse of a notification on someone’s phone as they were scrolling. A group chat. A name I wasn’t part of. Their names, all there. Mine wasn’t.

It shouldn’t have mattered. I tell myself that even now. People have different circles, different conversations. Not everything needs to include me. I’m older. Maybe they just feel more comfortable talking among themselves.

And honestly, it’s okay.

I also have my own people.

The funny thing is, they’re here too. In the same office. Just a few desks away.

Two friends who knew me before I became this quieter version of myself. Before I learned to swallow my thoughts and just smile things away. We have our own group chat, just the three of us. It wasn’t created to exclude anyone. It wasn’t born out of secrecy. It simply existed long before these newer friendships formed.

With them, things are easy.

I don’t have to replay my words in my head after I say them. I don’t have to wonder if I sounded wrong. I don’t have to guess what they might be saying when I’m not around.

And I’m not saying this to defend myself.

I’m just noticing the difference.

Because here, with the others, I find myself thinking more. Observing more.

Questioning more.

Like the way they sometimes share looks, small smiles that don’t quite reach me. Or how certain names come up, followed by laughter that feels… coded.

Because it is.

I know they have codenames for people they don’t like.

I didn’t mean to find out, but I did. It’s one of those things you pick up on when you’re always around but never quite included. The way they say a name slightly differently. The way they laugh just a bit harder after.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s this quiet certainty I can’t shake:

They probably have one for me too.

I don’t know what it is. And maybe I don’t really want to know.

But it lingers.

It changes the way I hear their laughter. The way I respond to their jokes. The way I look at every “Ate” they casually throw my way.

Is it genuine?

Or is it just something easy to say?

There are still moments when things feel real. When we share food during lunch, when someone asks me for help sincerely, when the laughter includes me without hesitation.

And those moments matter.

They really do.

But they don’t erase the questions.

Because when you’ve experienced what genuine friendship feels like, even if it’s just with two people sitting quietly in the same office, you start to notice the difference.

You start to feel when something is effortless and when something requires you to constantly adjust yourself just to fit in.

And lately, there’s another question that stays with me longer than I expect.

I find myself wondering why some people don’t know how to be genuine. Or maybe they do, but they choose not to be. Why is it so easy for others to laugh with you, talk to you every day, and still keep something real at a distance?

Why does friendship seem so light to them?

Because for me, it never was.

I’ve always treasured it more than I probably show. I notice the small things, the effort, the sincerity behind words. I hold on to the moments when someone chooses to stay, to listen, to be real without needing to pretend.

Maybe that’s why this feels heavier than it should.

Because when I call someone a friend, I mean it.

And I guess I’m still learning that not everyone defines it the same way.

So I don’t confront them.

I don’t ask about the group chat.

I don’t ask about the codename.

Maybe I’m afraid of confirming what I already suspect. Or maybe I’ve just learned that not every truth needs to be forced into the light.

Instead, I stay.

I do my work. I help when they ask. I smile when they joke.

I understand.

But at the end of the day, when the office quiets down and everyone starts to leave, I sit there for a moment longer and ask myself the same question I’ve been carrying all this time:

When do you know a friendship is genuine?

Is it when you feel included or when you don’t feel the need to question anything at all?

I don’t have the answer yet.

But I think,

I’m starting to recognize the difference.