Every friend group has one. The person who makes the spreadsheet. The person who books the table. The person who, if they stopped, would watch everyone drift off like untethered balloons and discover nobody reaches for the string. This is their diary.
Monday
Suggested dinner for Saturday. Received three thumbs-up and one “maybe, will check.” Felt joy. Joy, I have learned, is a deposit on disappointment.
Tuesday
Created a poll with four restaurants. Eight people in the chat. Two votes. One vote was for an option I did not include, which should not be technically possible. They found a way. They always find a way not to help.
Wednesday
Someone asked “what time are we thinking?” I wrote the time in the first message. In bold. Pinned. I answered politely. I am not a friend. I am infrastructure.
I am not a friend any more. I am a customer service desk with a fringe, and nobody leaves a review.
Thursday
The restaurant needs a deposit. Asked for ten each. Received two transfers, one “will send tonight,” and a single moneybag emoji, which is not money. It is a picture of the money I will never see.
Friday
Someone dropped out. Someone asked to bring a plus-one I have never met and will be expected to remember. I updated the booking. I updated the spreadsheet. My face has held the same smile since Monday, like a hostage.
Saturday
Dinner happened. Everyone laughed. At the end someone said, “We should do this more often,” and every head turned slowly towards me, as if I were the weather. Or staff.
I covered the missing deposits. Nobody noticed. That is the job.
Sunday
Lay on the sofa and ran the experiment in my head: what if I simply stopped? I know the answer. The chat goes quiet. In five years we meet only at funerals, and I am still the one who books the pub afterwards.
Opened the chat. Typed: “Same again next month?” Two thumbs-up. One “maybe.”
Note to all friends of planners: vote in the poll. Send the tenner. Answer within one business day. You won’t. That is why we exist, and why we are this tired.