At last, Monday morning claimed victory. The dawn softly replaced the restless night, where doubt had wandered, now surrendered to the light.
The sharp blare of a car horn cuts through the air, mingling with the frantic rhythm of traffic. The scent of morning street food wafts on the breeze, a fragrant promise of the day's beginnings, as it dances through the bustling streets.
The weekday begins in my office on the 8th floor of a rental building nestled in the city's heart. A sense of weariness lingers among the employees—many look drained, their energy dimmed before the day has fully begun. Some sit before glowing screens, absorbed in the latest breaking news. Others trickle in late, their hands occupied with plastic cups of coffee, snacks, or neatly packed meal boxes brought from home.
In the IT department where I've spent more than a month, the team of six men maintains a quiet presence. Their demeanor hints at introversion, a shared inclination for solitude, or perhaps an unspoken rhythm of their camaraderie. Yet, I can't help but wonder if it's only my presumption, a surface impression awaiting deeper understanding.
In the quiet hum of the afternoon, just after lunch, Thavry from the finance department approached me with her usual poised demeanor. I've come to know her better over the past month—a fresh graduate, bright-eyed, and eager. She carried a new MacBook in one hand, a sticky note clinging to it like an afterthought.
"Brother IT, can you help me check and install some programs on this list?" she asked, her voice soft but hurried, handing me the sticky note.
"Okay," I replied, glancing over the note.
"Can you finish by 2 p.m.? My supervisor will need it for a meeting."
"Oh..." I hesitated, weighing the time.
"She has to leave for another company location by 2:30 p.m.," Thavry added, an apologetic smile lighting her face.
"That's fine," I reassured her. "When it's done, I'll let you know."
"Thanks so much! Oh, also, can you contact the owner of the computer through Telegram? The numbers on the note." She motioned to the sticky paper. "I have to head to the tax department with my team."
"Got it," I said with a nod.
As she walked away, the sticky note and her polite urgency stayed with me, a small interaction that carried the weight of routine collaboration in the flow of our day.
After installing the necessary programs for financial management and testing this new laptop, I entered the number and saved it as "FDS," representing the Finance Department Staff of our subsidiaries, which handle various types of business. Since I forgot to ask the name of this MacBook owner, I saved FDS-3., 3rd person of the department I knew.
"Good afternoon, Sir/Madam,
This is RED from the IT department. Your computer is ready. Could you kindly let me know where I should deliver it, or if I should meet you on the 8th floor to hand it over?
Thank you!"
After I sent a message, I decided to continue with my daily tasks. As I noted, it took about 30 minutes and it is almost half past 2pm now, it's exactly 02:47 o'clock. Did he/she already leave for the meeting?
"The response is:
Hello,
Thank you! I'll come down soon.
Then I reply:
Yes, noted."
I take a moment to recharge, stepping out to the office building's balcony. The hum of traffic stretches endlessly below, a line of cars crawling through the streets. A strange sensation lingers within me—something feels unsettled today.
I miss Solinka with an intensity that tugs at my chest, and every fiber of my being urges me to seek her out, to be near her. But I hold back. She's likely at the office, dressed formally, her presence commanding attention as she moves through her day. She should be enjoying a healthy lunch, her mind consumed with the tasks at hand, rather than sitting idle with a heavy heart like usual.
The wind stirs, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5, filling the air and sweeping across the scene. It's a fragrance I can't ignore, and for a moment, I am frozen in place, caught between reality and illusion. Then I hear them — familiar footsteps. They echo with the sharp click of high heels on the pavement.
"Hello."
Is it her voice, or am I imagining it again? Why is she here, in this space, where only I should be? She's standing at the edge of my office, framed by the narrow gap between my desk and the balcony, her gaze fixed on me. She looks almost out of place, yet completely at home at this moment.
Dressed in a black faux suede coat and gray high heels, her layered, mid-length hair catches the light as it moves with a deliberate slowness. Her lips, painted in a striking cherry red, part as she takes a hesitant step toward me, the awkwardness of her movement almost palpable.
"You!" she says, her voice laced with something I can't quite place.
And just like that, everything shifts. I stand on the balcony, lost in a cloud of questions, when she walks toward me, then closes the double mirror glass door. Her email address is lim.slk, which I had used earlier for the MacBook. I had no idea, as Lim Solinka, her full name on her current ID card, resembles the old one she used before.
The afternoon air felt thick, heavy with silence, as though the world was holding its breath. She stops just a few steps away, her voice low, as though afraid the walls might be listening. I could hardly believe my eyes as I stood there, taking in the surreal sight of us crossing paths once more, of all places, at our stationery importer and distributor firm. It felt almost like a twist of fate.
"Are you…?" she hesitated, her eyes scanning me with a strange intensity.
"Do you already know I work here, and you're following me?"
Her words hit me like a jolt. I blink, disoriented. Was she imagining things, or had my own thoughts tangled into something far more wild? Her gaze softened for a moment, but then she rushed on, her voice quick, almost desperate.
"You join this company and move in right beside me? Is someone asking you to do this?"
I feel a sharp pang of confusion, the world tilting beneath me. I shake my head, my voice breaking the silence between us.
"What are you talking about?"
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Didn't you hear my question?"
I exhaled sharply, struggling to find the right words.
"What makes you think I'd follow you? I don't even know what you're talking about. Who—who would ask me to stalk you?"
She turned her head, her gaze flicking to the distance, but I could see the unease in the stiff set of her shoulders. There was something more in her eyes—something she wasn't saying. And it made me wonder if, maybe, she was the one hiding a secret, not me.
I could sense the tension in our glance exchange. She's starting to connect dots that may not align in the way she hoped, and I can sense her suspicions rising. The juxtaposition of the personal and the professional—especially when the color "red" is involved—adds a layer of uncertainty.
She paused, her gaze sharpening as she leans slightly forward, her tone shifting to one of quiet suspicion.
"So, you're an IT staff, and you say your name is RED, right?"
"For sure," I replied, meeting her eyes, trying not to give anything away.
"My favorite color is red,"
"Do you love red, then?"
"Yes, of course."
I'm unsure whether I've said the right thing. Something in her expression shifts, and I can feel the weight of her unspoken thoughts.
A beat passes, and she narrows her eyes.
"Are you kidding me? Are you manipulating me?"
I'm caught off guard, the sting of the accusation sharp, but I force myself to remain calm.
"I didn't know anything about you before, I swear. I didn't even know the laptop was yours."
She glanced back toward my workspace, her eyes narrowing at the laptop behind the glass door. Then, with an intensity that seemed to slice through the space between us, she returned her gaze to me.
"But you told me your name is D. Damn, what about this—RED? Are you trying to play me for a fool? You're lying, aren't you?"
"I'm not lying. Please, just listen to me!"
Her eyes sharpened further, like knives ready to cut through the flimsy thread of my words.
"I'm telling you the truth," I continued, the desperation clear in my voice. "D is my real name—Ran Endy. RED is just a pen name I use when I'm socializing. I don't have any bad intentions. I don't lie."
She laughed, a cold, mocking sound that twists inside me like a jagged shard of glass. Solinka clearly saw my sincerity as nothing more than a joke.
"Whatever. Let's just end this here."
Her words were like a blade, slashing through me with a cruel precision.
"End it, what? I'm telling you the truth, and you still won't believe me."
"What's the point of believing you or not? It doesn't matter to me."
Her words cut through me like shards of glass, each one piercing my heart, breaking it into fragments. I hadn't even lied, yet here she was, clinging to her grudge. How could she be so cruel? She spoke with such ease, without a second thought, as if it didn't matter at all.
I didn't know if it hurt so much because I could feel it in my chest or because I could barely hold my tears back. It was like a tight knot, suffocating me, and every word I fought to keep inside felt like a weight I couldn't carry.
"It doesn't matter to you?" My voice broke, just barely.
She doesn't even flinch, her eyes cold and focuses.
"Umm, just get my computer. I have to go back to the office."
I nodded, swallowing down the rawness that threatens to spill. I walk into the office, grab the Mac, and return to the balcony, placing it in her hands with a quiet gesture.
"I checked and installed some software programs for you," I said, my voice distant, hoping she wouldn't hear the desperation beneath it.
"Thank you," she said, her voice as casual as ever. It stung.
And then, she is about to leave, already turning away, already done.
"I'm not a liar," I whispered, more to myself than to her. But it was out, hanging between us, and I couldn't take it back.
She stops. Her shoulders tenses, and she turns slowly, her face unreadable.
"But your half-truths make me sick," she replied, the words sharp like knives, slicing through the air between us.
And then, without another word, she turned away again, leaving me standing there, as the unbearable pain tightened its grip on me. Alone.
My heart aches with a quiet, unrelenting sorrow, a grief that feels like it's woven into the very fibers of my being. The sharpness of it lingers, cutting through the stillness of my thoughts, echoing in the hollow spaces of my chest. Every breath feels like a reminder of what's lost, an empty rhythm where love once danced.
I carry the weight of shattered dreams, delicate fragments of what could have been, now scattered across the landscape of my soul. They glisten like shards of glass under the cruel light of reality, each one sharp enough to tear through the tenderness I thought I still held.
The silence is deafening—it's the absence of words unsaid, the quiet between the spaces where we once touched, once laughed, once existed as two intertwined souls. Now, there's only the unbearable void where your voice once resided, and I am left with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of your absence.
In this storm of aching tenderness, I am torn between wanting to forget and longing to remember, as if the very act of remembering would breathe life into a love that is no more. Yet the pain is a constant companion, a silent cry that no one can hear, a song of loss that only my heart knows.
I long for the opportunities she might offer, the chance to prove myself worthy of her trust. I can only hope that she'll reflect on what we've shared up until now. I'd plead for her forgiveness if I could, desperate to make amends. I'm sorry—more sorry than words can express. I've wanted to say it for so long, but the weight of it has become too much to bear. Please, I beg of you, forgive me.
It's nearly midnight, and she still hasn't come home. The clock ticks away, and with each passing minute, my worry deepens. The uncertainty gnaws at me, leaving me with a sinking feeling in my chest. I can't help but wonder, am I a part of the pain she's carrying right now? Has something I've done, or failed to do, made her retreat further into herself? The thought unsettles me, and I can't escape the feeling that her absence is a reflection of something I've broken between us.
The stars are scattered across the sky, their distant glow faintly illuminating the night. Shadows stretch along the sidewalk, twisted and elongated beneath the pale light. My heart races, each beat thudding in my chest as I wait, knowing she's on her way home. The anticipation wraps around me like a tightrope, and all I can do is wait for the moment when she steps back into this world I've been so desperate to share with her.
She stands in front of me, carrying a black luxurious brand bag, a long, silent sidewalk stretching between us like an endless divide. Her eyes are heavy with sadness, her heart tethered to a quiet desperation. I remain frozen, yet my lips tremble, whispering her name into the distance, a plea caught in the stillness.
I close the distance between us, my steps quick, eager to bridge the gap.
"I'm so glad you're home now," I whispered, my voice shaking with a quiet hope.
She remained silent, her gaze distant, unmoving.
"I'm sorry, Solin," I continued, each word weighed with regret. "I never meant to lie to you, to play with your heart, to turn this into some cruel joke. I know you're hurting, and all I want is to help you, to make it right. But right now, I'm begging you... please, forgive me."
She remained frozen, her presence a quiet stillness in the room.
"Can you forgive me? I've done something I regret."
At last, her silence fractures.
"Do you truly mean it? You said you never lied."
"I did."
"Does my forgiveness matter to you that much?"
"...It does."
Continued...