When Friendship Feels One-Sided: The Day I Saw Amanda Again

“You wouldn’t believe what happened at the office today!” Amanda’s voice, always just a decibel too loud, echoed over the produce section. She’d caught me by the apples, her cart brimming with organic kale and overpriced oat milk. I blinked, frozen mid-reach, my mind scrambling to catch up with her sudden presence after six months of silence. Six months—no calls, no texts, just a string of vague Facebook likes and the same excuses: “Busy, sorry. Let’s do it another time.”

I forced a smile. “Amanda, hey. It’s—wow, it’s been a while.”

She hugged me, her perfume sharp and nostalgic. “Girl, I know! Life’s insane. So, anyway, my manager totally put me on the spot again in front of everyone—” She rolled her eyes dramatically, launching into a story about payroll software and office betrayals, her hands carving the air. I nodded, trying to listen, but my thoughts kept drifting to the last time we’d actually sat down together—over coffee at our favorite spot downtown, when she’d still asked how my mom was doing or if my sister had gotten into that college in Seattle.

Back then, our friendship had felt sacred. We’d met as freshmen at Michigan State, lost and terrified, finding comfort in each other’s awkwardness. We were both only children, both products of divorce, and bonded over late-night ramen and shared heartbreaks. Even after moving to Chicago for work, we’d managed to keep the ritual alive: Saturday morning coffee, rain or shine. But after Amanda’s big promotion last fall, her texts became less frequent, her attention more fleeting. I’d spent months crafting invitations—brunch, movies, hiking at Starved Rock—only to get the same response: “Busy, sorry. Let’s do it another time.”

Now, as she described her latest work drama, I realized she hadn’t asked a single question about me. Amanda’s eyes flicked to her Apple Watch. “Ugh, I’m gonna be late. Did I tell you about my new Pilates instructor? She’s amazing—totally changed my life.”

I hesitated. “You know, Amanda, I lost my job last month.”

She blinked, lips parted, as if surprised I had something to say. “Oh. That sucks. But you’ll land on your feet, you always do.” She brushed it off, then launched right back into her own stress about quarterly reviews, barely pausing for breath.

I gripped the edge of my cart, a hot flush creeping up my neck. Was I invisible? Was our friendship just a stage for her monologues now? My mind flashed back to the day my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Amanda had been the first person I called—she’d skipped a work meeting to sit with me in the hospital, holding my hand, crying with me. Where was that friend now?

When her phone buzzed, Amanda glanced at it, her face lighting up. “Shoot, I have to run. Let’s get together soon, okay?” She hugged me again, barely waiting for my answer before breezing toward the checkout.

I stood there, stunned, surrounded by strangers. I wanted to chase after her, to demand: Do you even care about my life anymore? But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I wandered the aisles, replaying the interaction, wondering if I was overreacting or if I had finally outgrown this friendship. At the dairy case, I ran into Mrs. Carpenter, my old neighbor, who asked how my mom was doing. I nearly cried at her simple concern.

At home, I told my sister about it over FaceTime. “Maybe she’s just going through something,” she suggested. “Or maybe she’s not your person anymore.”

I lay awake that night, replaying Amanda’s stories, her laugh, the easy way she’d filled every silence with her own life. I thought about how much I missed sharing my world with her—and how lonely it felt to be reduced to an audience. I scrolled through our old photos—road trips, birthdays, laughing at inside jokes that now felt like relics.

The next day, I drafted a text. “Hey Amanda, I loved seeing you, but I miss when we used to really talk—about both our lives. If you ever want to catch up for real, I’m here.” I stared at the message, thumb hovering over ‘Send.’ Part of me worried I was being too needy, too sensitive. But another part, the part that remembered what friendship could be, pressed ‘Send’ anyway.

She didn’t reply—not that night, not the next. Days passed, and the silence was louder than ever. I started to realize that maybe Amanda wasn’t the friend I needed anymore. Maybe I was meant to grow past this, to find people who met me halfway.

But even as I grieved the loss, I felt something shift. I reached out to old friends, joined a book club, let new people in. The ache didn’t vanish, but it dulled with time, replaced by hope—hope that I could build something better.

Now, every time my phone lights up with a genuine invitation or a simple “How are you?” I remember that moment in the grocery store—the day I realized friendship shouldn’t be so lonely.

Do we hold on to what was, or do we make space for what could be? When is it time to let go of people who can’t see us anymore?