After the approval, the hum of the projector continued to fill the room, blending with the rhythmic tapping of keyboards.
Occasionally, Kendrick's gaze wandered to the other side of the glass partition, where Telly sat, his focus sharp and his fingers gliding over the keyboard.
Finally, Kendrick turned back to his computer and hesitated for a moment before typing:
"What were you in charge of when you were at Coding Kitsch?"
The reply came almost immediately.
"I built the frameworks around potential challenges in the software and worst-case scenarios so they'd work seamlessly and stay rigid under pressure."
Kendrick stared at the screen, absorbing the response.
"So different software has different frameworks?"
"You're overthinking it," Telly sent. "When it comes to software, there are similarities and differences depending on requirements. Most common issues? Apps that don't work when Wi-Fi's down or there's no coverage."
A second bubble appeared.
"Another is when users don't have the app for a facility but still want to use it."
Kendrick frowned slightly, trying to piece it together.
"So it's about finding common ground and preparing for the outliers before the issues even happen?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Telly turn toward them, his expression unreadable.
"Other than time, predictability is the greatest weapon for a company," Telly said, his tone matter-of-fact but laced with authority. "Shareholders, stakeholders, investors—they're not going to be happy if you burn more time than money."
"By establishing a standard," he continued, "you prevent not only downtime in development but also streamline debugging and testing."
"Which means reduced mass hiring and layoffs," Peter interjected, connecting the dots with a thoughtful nod.
The three of them—Kendrick, Sarah, and Peter—turned their attention to Telly, separated by the glass partition that somehow seemed more like a window into another world than a barrier.
"Precisely," Telly said, his voice carrying a quiet finality. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the vapor swirling like an exclamation mark to his point.
"It ensures stability and predictability," he added, tapping the edge of his IQOS on the ashtray with a soft click. "And stability keeps everyone happy—including the employees."
Sarah tilted her head, trying to keep her intrigue under wraps but failing miserably. "So the only thing left for them to worry about is public relations and branding?"
"Exactly," Telly said, a hint of a smirk ghosting over his lips. "It's all about perception. How people see them can make or break their trust—and their business."
Kendrick felt the weight of Telly's words settle in the room like an invisible pressure. It wasn't just what Telly said, but the way he said it—with the confidence of someone who had seen the whole game board, not just the pieces.
His fingers hovered over his keyboard, itching to ask a hundred questions. But when he finally spoke, his own voice surprised him.
"Then why did you leave?" Kendrick asked, his voice quiet but insistent.
Telly's eyes flicked toward him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn't going to answer. Then, with a deliberate calmness, he said, "There's only so much you can learn staying with one company."
Kendrick tilted his head slightly, curiosity written all over his face.
"When you stay loyal," Telly continued, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something sharper, "you learn to fight the same battles over and over. You master one kind of war."
His gaze drifted past Kendrick, as if seeing something far beyond the glass walls of their meeting room. "But out there..." He gestured faintly, his fingers cutting through the smoke curling around him. "There are other battles. Bigger ones. Ones you can't even imagine when you're stuck in the same arena."
Kendrick felt a chill crawl down his spine, though he wasn't sure why.
"And sometimes," Telly added, almost as an afterthought, "the only way to truly grow is to stop fighting someone else's wars."
The room fell silent, the hum of the projector filling the space like static. Kendrick wanted to press him further, to ask what he meant, but the weight of Telly's words pinned him in place.
On the other side of the partition, Telly turned back to his screen, the conversation clearly over.
The clock struck six, and the faint zipping sound of Telly's bag broke the quiet rhythm of keystrokes. Kendrick glanced up just in time to see Telly slipping his laptop inside with effortless precision.
Without a word, Telly walked toward the glass door. The clunk of it closing behind him echoed faintly in the room, leaving a vacuum of presence in his wake.
Kendrick's gaze lingered on the empty doorway, his hands frozen above the keyboard. He's living the dream, Kendrick thought, his chest tightening. Living my dream.
He looked back at his screen, but the words blurred, replaced by a flicker of self-doubt that refused to be ignored.
What would someone like him ever see in someone like me?
The thought cut through him sharper than he cared to admit.
Night fell, and Kendrick sat in front of his dimly lit computer. On the screen, Telly's name glowed in the search bar, stark and unassuming.
No social media. Only a sparse LinkedIn profile, a handful of freelance gigs, some technical blogs, and a few videos of him explaining coding and engineering concepts with quiet precision.
Kendrick frowned. Not even Wikipedia had much on him—no family history, no juicy breadcrumbs to follow. He tried Goodreads. Nothing. Just a few programming books in his virtual library.
He leaned back, staring at the tabs cluttering his browser. Article after article offered tidbits about his career but nothing about the man himself. It was like Telly existed only in the professional realm, his personal life scrubbed clean.
Then something caught Kendrick's eye: not a citizen. The words hovered in his mind. He clicked through another tab and skimmed. Telly had just gained residency status recently, but there was more.
Two passports—St. Kitts and Nevis and his current residency. Kendrick blinked, rereading the information.
"Wow," he muttered, his voice low in the quiet room. "He's not just rich. He's rich rich."
Kendrick exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. The kind of wealth Telly had wasn't just the kind you worked for—it was the kind you safeguarded with experts, trusts, and impenetrable privacy.
His gaze drifted to the edges of his desk, to the frayed family photo propped up against a stack of old notebooks. The contrast hit hard. Telly lived in a world of seamless efficiency and limitless opportunity, while Kendrick... Kendrick couldn't even dream that big.
He sighed, glancing around his dingy room. The paint was peeling, the glow of his monitor reflecting off mismatched furniture. For a moment, he wondered what it would feel like to have that kind of freedom. The kind Telly seemed to wear so effortlessly.
Kendrick looked around his room and let out a soft, ridiculous chuckle.
"I must be crazy," he murmured, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the thoughts swirling in his mind.
I must be.
Why would someone like Telly even glance his way? The thought burned in his chest, bitter and heavy. His eyes drifted over his environment. It all felt miles away from Telly's polished, untouchable world.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, but then—just for a moment—a question surfaced, tentative and fragile.
Kendrick's gaze drifted back to the picture of Telly on his screen. A chuckle escaped his lips, soft and almost self-deprecating.
Would he even love me?
The thought lingered, heavy and unwelcome. He leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering to the vision board above his desk. Photos of a cozy house, a sleek car, a quaint Parisian street, and a gold wedding ring pinned in neat rows with thumbtacks stared back at him like distant dreams.
He sighed, taking in the stark contrast of his reality: the peeling paint on the walls, the sagging bed, the chipped mug on his desk. His gaze returned to Telly's picture, an ache settling deep in his chest.
If things went south... if I didn't have anything to offer... would he stay?
The words repeated in his mind, louder this time. His head dipped low, and with a heavy heart, he closed his laptop.
"He's too good for me," Kendrick whispered, his voice barely audible. He let the silence swallow him whole before exhaling sharply, as if trying to release the weight in his chest.
I know better than this.
He pushed back from the desk, the room suddenly feeling colder, emptier.