Everyone thought my colleague was just forgetful. But after two years of being publicly erased by her, I finally decided to remind her who I was — and who I wasn’t. Let’s just say she didn’t like it.
I work in a small office where everyone knows everyone’s business, and gossip moves faster than email.
But they all act as if they’re too busy to notice.
You can practically hear the tension in the air when someone’s Slack goes off during a meeting.
We’re only about 25 people on the floor, and yet every minor personality quirk gets magnified over time, like dust collecting on glass.
I’m Brittany. I’m 29, and I’ve been at this company for around two years now.
I’m the kind of person who shows up early with a second coffee in hand, just in case someone forgot theirs.
I’m not flashy. I do my work well, and I try not to step on toes.
For the past two years, there has been one person who’s regularly made me wonder if I’m losing my mind.
Her name is Joan.
Joan is 32, and one of those women who operates as if she’s in a Netflix dramedy about tech startups.
She’s always smiling and performing niceness as if she’s in an audition.
Joan dresses sharply, but not too much in your face.
She wears perfectly neutral blazers, delicate gold necklaces, and those shoes that click authoritatively down the hallway. You know the type.
My colleague has mastered being “nice” in a way that cuts.
For instance, she’ll compliment you on your shoes, then slip a pin under your skin, like taking credit for your idea.
She’ll laugh at your joke, then cut you off in a meeting as if you’re the intern who wandered into the wrong room. But the most infuriating thing?
The thing that made me question whether I was losing my mind?
She kept “forgetting” my name — but only in meetings.
It started subtly.
One meeting, she looked right at me and said, “Could you send that file over, um… what’s your name again?” while the room went quiet.
Everyone would turn to me as if I were supposed to help her out of the moment.
That first time, I laughed awkwardly and said, “Brittany.”
“Goodness!
I struggle with recollection,” she’d say, flashing that tight little grin of hers. “It’s my brain’s fault!”
The thing is, Joan’s desk was 10 feet from mine!
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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