One evening, under the soft glow of the overhead lights, Rawson approached my desk with two steaming cups of tea. "I thought you might need this," he said, placing a cup before me. His fingers lingered near mine, hesitant, almost hopeful.
The girl's advice from the night out came to my mind.
"Thank you," I thanked, clutching the warmth of the cup as if it could anchor me in the storm of emotions. I looked up at him, at the earnestness in his eyes, and felt the tug of something new, something promising. Yet, as inviting as that promise was, the specter of what once was with Alarick haunted the edges of my joy.
I couldn't convince myself that what I felt for Rawson, as sweet as it was, was the same as what I felt for Alarick. No matter how cold and gruesome he was, my heart still clung to him like the air I needed. Since I wasn't the type to play around, I didn't want to give Rawson the wrong impression, but at the same time, I really enjoyed his presence.
"Is everything alright, Lina?" Rawson asked, concern furrowing his brow.
"Everything's fine," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. Inside, I was a maelstrom of conflict, torn between the ghost of a past affection and the tangible, growing connection with the man standing before her.
I sipped my tea, each sip a momentary reprieve from the questions that plagued me. Rawson's kindness was genuine, his regard for me evident. But Alarick, with his enigmatic distance, still held a piece of my heart—a piece I wasn't sure I was ready to reclaim or relinquish.
We sat there for a while and talked about work. "I-I appreciate your help," I stuttered, lifting my cup in a shaky toast. "You're a good friend." I wanted to say more, to ease the tension that had grown between us, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, we sat in uncomfortable silence, sipping our tea as an awkward barrier between us until he left for his office, and we continued working separately.
I rounded the corner in the hallway, my steps brisk and focused on the stack of files cradled in my arms. A soft buzz of voices grew louder as I neared the break room, the center for casual office chatter and impromptu meetings. As I pushed open the door, the conversation inside tapered off into unnatural silence.
"Hey, Lina!" Gemma, my closest friend from work, called out, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Just in time. Rawson was about to show us that new data visualization tool he's been raving about."
"Was he?" I replied, a flicker of suspicion creeping into my voice. I placed the files down on a nearby table, my gaze flitting between the faces of my friends, who seemed all too innocent.
"Absolutely," Ben chimed in, nudging Rawson forward with an elbow to his ribs. "Rawson, why don't you give Lina a personal demo? You know how much she enjoys those numbers."
Rawson, caught in the tide of their insistence, offered me a small, apologetic smile. The rejection from earlier probably was on his mind."If you're not too busy, I'd be happy to walk you through it," he said, his voice warm yet uncertain, as if he, too, sensed the uncertainty at play.
"Sure," I reluctantly responded, aware of the watchful eyes upon us both. This was no coincidence; my work friend friends had also become puppeteers, and I could almost feel the strings tugging at my limbs, guiding me toward Rawson. I followed him to the far end of the office where his office and laptop awaited, my heart thudding irregularly against her chest. I always tried to stay away from the thighs enclosure of his office.
As we leaned over the screen together, Rawson's arm occasionally brushed mine, sending ripples of awareness cascading through me. I tried to concentrate on the lines and colors that painted the graphs before me, but the proximity to Rawson made me acutely conscious of every breath, every movement.
"Does this make sense?" Rawson asked, his tone tentative, seeking approval.
"Uh-huh," I murmured, nodding more to myself than to the question. The truth was I barely grasped the edges of his explanation, my thoughts ensnared by the delicate situation my friends had orchestrated.
"Good," Rawson said, his relief palpable, mistaking my affirmation as understanding rather than the tangled web of emotions I bickered with.
His eyes held a question, one I wasn't ready to answer, and I felt the weight of my internal conflict deepen. It was a labyrinth of what-ifs and maybes, and as I looked back at the screen, pretending to analyze the colorful metrics, I realized that with each orchestrated encounter, my resolve wavered a little more.