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This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at TAMU chapter.

I thought you were a friend…

I laugh at a joke you tell, smiling with a shake of my head. Looking up at you, I tease you as well. I ask how your day is going, and you ask as well. We talk about the mundane, banal things of life at work. We don’t discuss deeper topics, and we don’t hang out outside of work. Occasionally, you’ll text me when you’re bored, and I’ll respond. You’re a work friend, but someone I consider a friend nonetheless. So when I pick up a coffee in the morning, I’ll pick one up for you as well. I’ll gift you a piece of candy every now and then because I know Reeces is your favorite. This is what it means to be my friend.  

And sure, sometimes there are things that you do that make me pause. But then I assure myself that you would not overstep because you are a friend. So when you flirt with some customers or coworkers with your generic “you have pretty eyes” line, I dismiss the action. And when some female coworkers complain about you texting them, shooting your shot with a pickup line that they shoot down, I am surprised and equally grateful that you have not flirted with me. Through the grapevine, I heard about your mode of flirtation and am comforted that I have passed your notice in that way. Then I think myself silly. You would never think about flirting with me; I am 17 and you are 25. I have nothing to fear in that department.

When your one year of working has come around, I bring you a coffee and chocolate, happy to surprise a friend of mine with a gift. A week later, my one year of working comes and passes. Three days later you belatedly gift me a vase of flowers from a store across the street. I smile, surprised and grateful. I thank you for the flowers, overjoyed by the thoughtful gift. A moment passes where you look down at my face, staring for longer than you should. A little uncomfortable and confused by your actions, I smile once more, thanking you for the flowers and informing you I have to get back to work.

After my shift is over and I’m back at home, I receive a text from you, asking how I like the flowers. I text you back, “thank you so much, they’re beautiful.”  You prolong the conversation, asking about the end of work and complimenting me on my work ethic. I say it’s nothing, that I don’t mind working the extra hours, a little weirded out by your praise. Shaking off your behavior, I ask something mundane, keeping the conversation aloft. You answer with an equally mundane response, and I figure the conversation is over. But then you text about how pretty my freckles look–

I freeze, unsure if I read your text right. You couldn’t possibly–You wouldn’t–I’m a minor. 

My breathing becomes shaky as I read and reread your text. Over and over and over again. I know that the message you sent was your way of flirting with me. I know it is. Closing out of your text and throwing my phone on my bed, I head into my bathroom, begging for ignorance.  

I must have read it wrong. I must have. Maybe I misread it. Maybe you miswrote what you meant to say. Maybe you were just being friendly. Maybe, maybe, maybe.  

Because there is no way–no way you–a 25 year old–could possibly be flirting with me–a minor. We are friends, for Christ’s sake.

Shaking my head, I don’t respond to your text, hoping that my silence speaks volumes.

As the day passes and the next one comes, I get angry. Angry at you. How could you? What makes you think it is okay to flirt with me? What makes you think I would be receptive to that?  

I AM A MINOR.

But apparently you are more thinkheaded than I ever thought because you text me again. The same text as before about how pretty my freckles are. You recycle the same flirtatious line. My silence was not loud enough.

I hold off on texting you, not knowing what to say, because apparently I have to say something for you to get the hint that I am uncomfortable.

Finally, the night before my upcoming shift, I ask my older brother and his friends how I should respond. I show them the text, confessing that I have no idea what I should do. They say I should just flat out text you that I am not interested. I nod my head, but still worry about what I should write. Even though I am pissed at you, I still don’t want to upset you. So I say “please don’t text me stuff like that.  It makes me uncomfortable.” You respond with an okay. Relieved, I tell my brother. It slips out how old you are, and my brother gets more serious. He thought you were just a coworker, someone no older than 19. He didn’t know you were a shift manager and 25.

When work comes the next day, I am anxious, edging into a panic attack. I thought I would be mad when I saw you. I was before when I thought about you. But instead, I am anxious and nervous and scared to see you. When I work my shift and you are not there, I am relieved.

But the next shift, you are there. We overlap shifts by an hour. During that hour, I am stressed. I try to act normal. But I can’t. I’m shaky and jittery around you. When I am off work, out of your presence, I finally feel breath again. I can get through this, it’s no big deal. The matter is resolved, he said he wouldn’t text-flirt with me again. I’m being dramatic, making something out of nothing.  The matter is resolved.

And sure, as the days pass, the anxiety lessons to a bearable degree. We talk at work, but we don’t text anymore. As my days at work draw to a close because I’m quitting for college, you say we should get together to hang out. And I want to hang out with you. I want to hang out with the friend you were. But I’m scared to be alone with you. And sure, maybe my fear is unfounded and irrational… But I’d rather not place myself in a situation in which we are alone. So I make excuses and push you off.  My last day of work comes and goes. You text me, but I don’t respond.  

Guilt bugs me like gnats in dayling every now and then you text me and I fail to respond. My friends say I should block you, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings and I’m also scared that you’ll know I blocked you. You friend me on snapchat but I ignore the request. I make my instagram private. When I come back to town for break, I avoid my old work place like the plague. I’m scared that I might run into someone and they’ll tell you I was there and you’ll be upset I didn’t text you. Or worse, that I’ll run into you. I don’t know what to do because you used to be my friend… 

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*This is a true story and I just wanted to share my experience in case anyone has had a similar experience and needs to feel not as alone.*

Howdy! I’m Gabriela Gomez, an avid reader who is interested in all areas of publishing and writing. And reading of course! I’m the Editor-in-Chief; I currently oversee all the publishing of articles for the Her Campus at TAMU chapter. I am overjoyed to read all the members’ articles and make any corrections that will help to elevate the article. I have been with Her Campus at TAMU since my freshman year. The first year I was a general member on the Writing and Editing committee. During that first year, I wrote a total of 23 articles and was always finding new ways to help. For my second year, I worked as the Senior Editor, publishing more than 80 articles and writing 38 articles. Now in my second semester of junior year, I have implemented a new pitch process for better organization and cleanest, I have already published more than 170 articles, and I have written 16 articles and will continue writing more! Besides working as the Editor-in-Chief, I am a dedicated student at Texas A&M studying Biomedical Sciences. I am also obtaining a minor in both English and Spanish. While not studying diligently, I work in a research lab grinding away, trying to get my name on some research papers (fingers crossed). In my free time, I read, obviously. I am also on the hunt for the best latte to ever bless this earth and love a good game of chess!