A week passed, and a new day dawned with crisp freshness in the air. The office, surrounded by lush greenery, hummed with quiet vitality. It was a peaceful morning, one that made everything feel new again.
Inside, the usual buzz echoed through the hallways, but today felt different. My manager, usually a steady presence in his office, was still at his desk, despite whispers that he'd be leaving by month's end.
As I moved through the office, I sensed a shift in the atmosphere—excitement and quiet joy rippled through the staff. News spread like a secret, and the air buzzed with anticipation, as though things were about to change.
Through the digital department, just beside the IT workspace, I overheard a hushed conversation. The voices were low, almost as if they feared being overheard.
"Really? Brother Hak is coming right now?" one voice asked, disbelief creeping into the words.
The response came quickly, laced with certainty but still cautious.
"Yes. Sure. He's on the 11th floor right now."
Another voice chimed in, a touch of confirmation in the air.
"Of course. I heard someone mention he arrived around lunchtime and actually joined the team for lunch."
A pause lingered before the question finally came.
"And what's he going to be?"
"I don't know," a female voice murmured, uncertainty clouding her voice.
"I heard," came the response, steady and deliberate, "he's going to be the CFO—the Chief Financial Officer."
If that was the case, he would be working directly with Solinka. It had to be part of his plan all along, I thought. Sister Nita had made it clear, far too clearly, that he wouldn't be coming back. Yet here he was, left with a question that lingered in the air, unanswered. But now, what was he supposed to do?
I rushed through the interior corridor, my steps hurried but filled with a strange sense of determination. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped inside, pressing the button for the 11th floor. My heart raced as the numbers on the panel flickered higher, each passing second making the anticipation more unbearable.
I had to see what was happening. I had to know. But as the elevator ascended, a tremor coursed through me, one I couldn't control. My hands were unsteady, and my breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, barely enough to steady the fear that gripped me.
The elevator hummed softly, stopping on the 11th floor. The doors opened, revealing her, as if waiting, suspended in time. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, stared into empty space. The weight of her pain remained, unchanged, as if the years had brought me back to this moment, where her gaze met mine again, echoing that first day on our corridor, when the gloom settled in.
I moved instinctively, my hand reaching out to grasp hers, as if the touch could tether us to something real, something still worth holding on to. But before I could bridge the gap between us, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into her space with an unsettling ease. He stood next to her, close enough to blur the lines of what was mine.
In that instant, the world seemed to stop—time itself stilled, leaving me suspended in a frozen moment, caught between the past and the jagged present.
The soft click of gray heels echoed as she stepped into the elevator, her movement effortless. Unease gripped me as I stepped out. A man, around 5'8" with a lean frame—Hak Seng, I guessed—followed her closely.
Uncertain and caught off guard, I hesitated, my steps faltering. Instinctively, I thrust my arm forward, just in time to halt the doors from sealing shut. Solin turned, her expression a mix of surprise and irritation, while the man—a polished figure in his thirties, with the aura of someone middling in both rank and disposition—narrowed his eyes at me.
His furrowed brow hinted at suspicion, but his indifference won out as he turned away, perhaps dismissing me as someone who'd accidentally stepped off on the wrong floor.
She reached out, her finger pressing the glowing icon for the 20th floor—the summit of the building.
The air inside the elevator was crisp and cool, a quiet reprieve from the bustling world outside. The square room felt even smaller with the three of us inside—her presence commanding, his imposing in its quiet way, and me, caught somewhere in between.
Seconds stretched into minutes, each tick of time heightening the silence, yet no one spoke.
At last, the elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal the 20th floor. It was breathtaking—a sanctuary suspended above the city.
The open space stretched before us, blending function with elegance. A cozy coffee shop in one corner filled the air with warmth. Nearby, bookshelves lined the library, inviting curiosity. A lush garden framed a serene fishing pool, where ripples danced. Beyond, free spaces waited for their purpose.
They walked toward the secluded table tucked away in the corner, its steel surface nearly hidden beneath a cascade of houseplants. The greenery formed a quiet sanctuary, far removed from prying ears or curious onlookers.
The man, his expression shadowed by concern, pulled out a chair for Solinka. Her demeanor was heavy with melancholy as she sank into the seat. Without a word, he took his place across from her, his movements precise, reflecting his composed and polished demeanor. Clad entirely in sharp black attire, he exuded an air of understated elegance.
Breaking the silence, his voice finally cut through the quiet like a gentle but deliberate note.
"Solin!"
She lifted her head at the sound of her name, her movements slow, reluctant.
The man sat before her, his expression a mixture of hesitation and forced cheer.
"Why the long face, huh?"
She didn't reply. He shifted uneasily, glancing over his shoulder as though fearing an audience. His nervous energy filled the space between them.
Meanwhile, I sat nearby, tucked behind a potted plant, pretending to focus on the game on my phone but unable to tune them out entirely.
"I know you're still angry at me," he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I know my apologies mean nothing, that they don't ease your mind. But I… I can't stop, Solin. I can't, darling."
Still, she said nothing. He continued pleading.
"I can't break up with you," he said, his voice trembling. "I thought I could move on. But when I heard you were back... it felt like the only way to see you again."
She said nothing, her silence as heavy as the moment itself.
"It was hard," he continued, his words now spilling out in desperation. "I couldn't reach out. You blocked me from everything—every way we used to talk. Solin, please, don't leave. I'm begging you."
Her expression didn't shift, her face unreadable.
"Did Nita tell you I came back?" she asked finally, her tone flat.
"No," he replied quickly, shaking his head. "She didn't. I haven't seen her since…"
Still, she gave no reaction, her stillness more unsettling than any words she might have spoken.
"I… I've made up my mind about something," he said hesitantly, his voice catching as he tried to find the right words.
"I know you need time, but maybe… we could think about starting over? It's hard to talk here, with everything so sudden. Can we… Can we go somewhere else? Just to talk?"
Her gaze was steady, unyielding.
"No. Whatever you have to say, say it now. Here."
"And then what?" he asked, his voice faltering. "You'll just leave?"
"Yes," she replied, the word sharp as glass.
"Don't do that," he pleaded, his tone desperate now.
"If you stay, I leave," she said firmly, a finality in her words that made his heart sink.
"I won't let you go again," he whispered, a tremor of resolve in his voice, as though willing the universe to bend to his will.
Her face flushed crimson, her eyes blazing with anger as she demanded,
"What are you planning to do?"
The man straight his back, his posture resolute, though his voice carried the weight of remorse.
"I'm planning to win you back," he said, his tone steady yet tinged with regret.
"I know it won't be easy, and I know you're still hurting because of me. Leaving you back then... It was the greatest sin I've ever committed. I couldn't give up on you just because the situation isn't ideal!"
Her lips quivered, and for a moment, her defiance faltered.
"You… Hak! Please…It's ended between us." she whispered, her voice wavering.
He reached for her hand, his own trembling as he made contact. But just as quickly, she yanked her hand away, her rejection as sharp as a blade.
"I will make it right," he implored, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions.
"I'll take responsibility for everything. Just… give me a second chance, my love. It's my duty—it's my responsibility!"
Her laugh rang out, cold and cutting, mocking him without mercy.
"WTF? Responsibility?"
Her derision struck him like a blow, and for a fleeting moment, his confident façade crumbled. The disappointment etched on his face spoke louder than any words he could muster.
"I can give you more time to heal."
"I didn't need it from you."
"I'm not letting you go anywhere until we settle this." His voice was firm, unwavering. "Take a few days to rest. I'll contact you."
He rose from his seat, ready to walk away, but she stopped him, her voice sharp and final.
"Let's end it here. Everything. I'm not coming back."
His jaw tightened.
"I can't." He took a breath, visibly trying to rein in his frustration.
"Go home. I'm holding my temper…"
But she wasn't backing down. She stood, her gaze cold and unyielding, as if his words held no weight.
"It's your choice, then."
Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving him frozen in place. Around the corner, a handful of onlookers watched in silence. He didn't move. He couldn't—not here, not now. Not like this.
As I remained seated, I could do nothing but watch her walk away, her steps resolute and unstoppable, until she vanished into the lush embrace of the green wilderness. I couldn't follow her—not now, not yet.
A part of me could only hope she could face whatever lay ahead until we meet again this evening, at home. The thought of what awaited there filled my mind. No matter how the day unfolded, no matter what emotions swirled between us, I had made up my mind. I would speak to her. I had to.
Hak Seng sank back into his seat at the same familiar spot, his shoulders heavy with the weight of despair. His eyes, though clouded with melancholy, still carried a trace of the gentlemanly air that seemed to define him. There was no denying it—his polished demeanor and striking appearance would inevitably draw the gaze of passersby, especially women.
In contrast, I've kept my look unchanged for nearly a decade—simple yet distinct. A few friends have remarked that I resemble Wentworth Miller, the brooding lead from Prison Break. I never saw it to myself, but their insistence always brought a half-smile to my face.
An idea suddenly springs to life in my mind, stirring unease. What do they truly mean by "responsibilities" in their conversations? The word feels heavy, layered with implications I can't yet unravel. My hands tremble as I wrestle with the possibilities, envisioning scenario after scenario, each one more unsettling than the last.
Continued...