I pushed open the door to my apartment, the familiar scent of lavender and home-cooked meals greeting me. For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe, to pretend that nothing had changed. But the second my eyes landed on her, standing in the kitchen with her back turned to me, I knew.
She hadn't even looked up.
"Hey, you're home late," she said, her voice even, controlled. Too controlled.
"Yeah… work ran late," I replied, setting my bag down by the door. It wasn't a lie—just not the whole truth.
She finally turned, offering a small smile, but something about it felt off. There was a distance between us now, one that hadn't been there before. I wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but my own guilt held me back.
We sat down for dinner, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound filling the room. I forced myself to eat, to pretend things were normal, but my mind was elsewhere—stuck in the memory of how things used to be.
The Past We Shared
I remembered the nights we spent on her family's rooftop, staring at the stars, dreaming about the future. She would lay her head on my shoulder, tracing patterns on my palm as she talked about all the places we would go, the things we would do together.
"I'll always be by your side," she had whispered once, her fingers tightening around mine. "No matter what."
Back in high school, we had been inseparable. She was the one who would drag me out of my comfort zone, convincing me to skip cram school just once so we could take a spontaneous train ride to the countryside. We spent that entire afternoon exploring, eating street food, and taking silly photos with an old film camera she had borrowed from her father.
"You look ridiculous," I had laughed, watching her struggle with a giant cotton candy that was almost bigger than her face.
She pouted, then smirked. "You're just jealous I got the last one."
I had stolen a piece of it from her hands, earning a playful punch to my arm. Those were the kinds of moments we had—carefree, full of laughter, untouched by the weight of adulthood.
On rainy days, we would hide in the library, pretending to study but secretly passing notes to each other between the pages of our textbooks. She would doodle silly caricatures of our teachers, and I would try to hold in my laughter so we wouldn't get caught.
Then there was the first time I had truly realized I loved her. It wasn't during some grand romantic moment—it was something small, something ordinary.
We had stayed late after school for a club meeting, and it had started raining unexpectedly. I had no umbrella, and neither did she. Instead of panicking, she had just grabbed my wrist and pulled me outside into the rain, spinning in circles as if the world was hers to command.
"Come on!" she had called out, her eyes shining under the streetlights. "It's just a little water!"
I had watched her, drenched and laughing, and thought to myself: I want to protect this happiness forever.
Now, sitting across from her at the dinner table, I couldn't help but wonder… when had that warmth started to fade?
A Return to Work
The next morning, I arrived at work, determined to keep my head down. But as soon as I walked into the office, I felt it—her presence. My boss stood by her glass-walled office, her eyes locking onto mine with a knowing smirk.
I looked away, pretending not to notice, and hurried back to my desk. But I could feel her gaze lingering on me, a silent promise that she wasn't done with me yet.
And deep down, I knew I wasn't done with her either.
The Presence Beside Me
Sliding into my seat, I barely noticed the woman beside me until she nudged my elbow with her own.
"You look tired," she said softly, her voice laced with concern.
I turned to see my colleague—her warm brown eyes scanning my face, a hint of something unreadable in them. She had always been the quiet one in the office, but lately, I had started noticing the way she paid attention to me. The way she lingered when we talked. The way she always seemed to know when I needed a distraction.
"You should take it easy," she added, offering me a small, almost teasing smile.
I managed a chuckle, though it felt hollow. "Easier said than done."
She didn't press further, but her presence felt… different.
For the first time in a while, I wasn't just thinking about my boss.