My Work Friend Became My Manager. She Didn't Cut My Workload.

The day she got promoted, Admin swapped her chair for one with lumbar support. I helped her move boxes. A pack of dried mango fell out of the bottom. It was the same brand she handed me last winter. I picked it up. She said, "Keep it, eat it." I put it in my pocket and didn't open it.

At the weekly meeting the next day, she stood by the whiteboard with that pen in her hand. She had borrowed that pen from me once and never returned it. Now she used it to draw circles on the assignment sheet. I heard my name followed by three things: A due today, B due tomorrow, C due Friday. Same as last month. A colleague next to me whispered, "You two are so close. She'll definitely take care of you." I didn't answer. I looked down and flipped through my notebook. A candy wrapper from last year was still tucked inside, clear plastic, its edge curled.

I worked overtime until eight. She passed my desk and said, "Good work. You're capable." That sentence used to make me happy. Now it felt like a rubber band snapping against the back of my hand. I lifted the keyboard cover, wiped it, and put it back. A message popped up in the lower right corner: B moved to tomorrow morning. I replied, "OK."

In the break room, she laughed with the new colleague. I held my mug; the ceramic burned my hand. I heard her say, "We do things by the book." I went back to my desk and printed my to-do list: A4 paper, three pages. I circled five things that had to be handed in today with a red pen. When I finished, the red pen was out of ink. I switched to a blue pen and wrote a question mark next to C.

My jaw tightened. She wasn't mean. I had expected her to be different. I had thought she remembered that I helped her fix a PPT, that I covered a shift for her, that I split half a sandwich with her. But on the assignment sheet, none of that counted. I pulled the candy wrapper out of my notebook and threw it in the trash. The trash can still had the steamed bun bag from breakfast. The wrapper landed on the bag. It weighed nothing.

On the third day, I decided to go talk to her. Not to argue. To talk priorities. I printed the three pages of to-dos and knocked on her office door. She looked up. There was blue under her eyes. I said, "Boss, I have three things: A due today, B due tomorrow, C due Friday. If they're all due today, I can't do it." She looked at the list, drew a line through C with that pen, and said, "I'll coordinate C." Then she looked at me and said, "You should have said so earlier." I said, "I used to feel awkward." She said, "Now I'm the leader. You need to say it even more." I smiled a little and said nothing.

Back at my desk, I crossed C off the list. The pen tip moved across the paper. In my drawer there were three packs of crackers, all from her. I took one out, opened it, and ate a piece. Too sweet. I drank some water. Next to my mug was a pothos. The leaf tips were turning yellow. I pinched off the yellow leaves. A little wet soil stuck to my finger.

After that, I was still busy. She still said, "You're capable." But I stopped waiting for her to say, "Don't do this one." I wrote "Only three things today" on a sticky note and stuck it beside my screen. I wrote my weekly report as a list and cc'd her. I answered, "I need to push B to tomorrow," when she said, "Good work." Sometimes she agreed. Sometimes she didn't. When she didn't, I took B home. When I took it home, I put it on the dining table and ate dinner first.

One Friday, she gave me a pack of candy. I put it in my drawer and didn't open it. By the time I left, there were four packs in the drawer. I lined them up like a row of little bricks. I closed the drawer and zipped my backpack.

I stopped wondering whether she was my friend. Whether she was or not, it didn't change the form I had to submit tomorrow. I turned off the computer. A pothos leaf brushed the edge of the screen. Tomorrow there were still three meetings.