Somewhere Between Us

The office smelled of freshly printed papers and strong coffee, yet all I could register was the musky scent of his cologne as he passed by. My first day at work was supposed to be nerve-wracking, a blend of introductions, formalities, and settling in. But the moment he turned toward me, nothing else seemed to exist.

"Good morning, Sir." I greeted, trying to sound composed.

"Good morning." His voice was husky, carrying the weight of sleep he hadn't completely shaken off. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, his brown eyes met mine.

"New?" He asked, a simple question, yet I was too lost in those deep, unreadable eyes to register it properly.

"Hmm." The sound left my lips automatically. I wasn't even sure what I was agreeing to.

And just like that, I was hypnotized.

That not-so-white-striped shirt loosely clung to his frame, the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing forearms laced with faint veins. The untrimmed beard added to his rugged charm, but what sent a shiver down my spine was the way his lips curved upward ever so slightly—a lazy smirk that didn’t quite turn into a smile but was enough to make my heart stumble.

I barely managed to take my seat, my hands clammy, my pulse erratic. The office was bustling, phones ringing, keyboards clattering, conversations floating in the air, but for me, the world had narrowed down to one person—him.

He was my senior. The one I had to report to, ask for approvals, discuss work. But in my head, he was much more than that.

The real challenge began when he started calling my name for work randomly.

"Hey, can you check this file and get back to me?"

I swear, if my heart had a mic, the entire office would have heard it drumming in my chest. His voice, deep and unhurried, made my insides flutter like a teenager experiencing her first crush. Sometimes, he wouldn't even look up while instructing, but when he did, my breath hitched.

And then came the hide-and-seek game.

I found myself stealing glances at him through the cubicles—watching as he stretched his arms above his head, the fabric of his shirt tightening just a little, or when he leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his chest, exuding a nonchalant authority that only made him more irresistible.

But fate had a twisted sense of humor—sometimes, when I dared to peek a little longer, he would catch me.

His eyes would meet mine across the room, a flicker of amusement dancing in them as if he knew exactly what I was up to. My face would heat up instantly, and I'd pretend to be deeply invested in the document on my screen.

There were moments when he would lazily fold his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing just enough skin to make my imagination spiral into chaos. Other times, he would lean forward on his desk, running a hand through his hair in frustration while deciphering a complicated report, and I'd be left hopelessly mesmerized.

One day, as he walked past my desk, he casually rested his palm on its surface while looking at something on his phone. Just that—the weight of his touch on my desk—was enough to send my mind into a frenzy.

There was an unspoken thrill in the way my heart skipped whenever he stood too close, whenever his voice dipped a little lower while discussing work, or when he smirked at something on his screen, completely unaware of how devastatingly attractive he looked.

I had never believed in love at first sight, but perhaps, just perhaps, I had fallen for him the moment our eyes met that very first morning.

I fell for him before I even knew his name.  

It was in the way he spoke—with warmth and sincerity. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, as if happiness resided in them. The way he made everyone around him feel heard and valued. But I had no idea about his personal life until much later, when I overheard someone mention his fiancée.  

The moment I learned he belonged to someone else, I should have stopped myself from falling any deeper. But the heart is foolish—it does not understand logic.  

I was just another face in his world. He had no reason to notice me. And yet, over time, we found ourselves drawn to each other in inexplicable ways. 

Days turned into weeks, but my heart never quite settled around him. Each time he called my name, each time he walked past my desk, I felt like I was balancing on a fragile thread between fascination and foolishness.

But little did I know, I wasn’t the only one caught in this unspoken pull.

He noticed things—little things.

The way my hands trembled slightly when I handed him a file, the way I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear whenever he looked at me a second too long, the way my breath hitched when he stood close, explaining something on my screen.

And perhaps, that’s why, around me, he was different.

While he was firm and direct with others, with me, his voice softened just a little. The sharp edges of authority melted into something almost careful, as if he was afraid his words might rattle me more than they already did.

"Take your time with this," he would say when handing me a new assignment, even when he never said the same to others.

"Let me know if you need help," he would add, though he never extended such reassurances to my colleagues.

It wasn’t just in the office.

One night, after finishing work, I found myself scrolling through social media absentmindedly, only to freeze at a notification—he had liked one of my poems.

It was a post I had written about longing—about stolen glances, about the thrill of unspoken words, about someone who made my heart stutter but never truly knew.

I stared at his name below the post, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Did he just randomly scroll through his feed and like it? Or… did he know?

The next morning, as I was organizing my desk, he walked up beside me, resting his palm casually on the wooden surface.

"You write well." His voice was casual, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.

I swallowed hard. He read my post. He read it.

"Oh… you saw that?" I tried to keep my voice light.

He tilted his head slightly, his brown eyes holding mine for a second too long.

"Who do you write for?" His question was simple. Innocent. But it carried a weight that sent my nerves spiraling.

I fumbled for an answer, but words failed me.

He didn’t push. He simply watched me with that same unreadable expression before letting out a soft chuckle, as if amused by my nervousness. Then, as if realizing he was treading a line he shouldn’t cross, he straightened up and walked away.

That was when I understood.

He felt something too.

Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it wasn’t even as reckless as my infatuation. But there was something—an unspoken hesitation in his eyes, a carefulness in his words, a restraint in his actions.

It was in the way he never allowed himself to stand too close for too long.

In the way he asked about my poetry, yet never pried too much.

In the way he turned softer only when it was me, as if protecting me from the authority he wielded over others.

And that realization—knowing that he, too, was caught in this unspoken tension—was both thrilling and heartbreaking.

Because no matter how much my heart yearned for more, we were bound by the walls of professionalism, by the silent rules neither of us dared to break.

So, we stayed this way—dancing around invisible lines, exchanging stolen glances, and pretending not to notice the unsaid words lingering between us.

We never crossed any lines. Our conversations were casual, laced with laughter and harmless teasing. We talked about work, shared cups of coffee, and occasionally walked together to the parking lot. But somewhere between all of this, there were stolen glances, silent acknowledgments, and an understanding that we both felt something more.  

Yet, we never spoke about it.  

Because some stories are never meant to be told.  

---

The night before my departure, I couldn’t focus on anything. My resignation request had been approved, and I was moving to a new city. I had convinced myself it was for the best—staying here, seeing him every day, knowing that he could never be mine—it would have broken me.  

But leaving him behind wasn’t easy either.  

I glanced at my phone. 

“A few hours to go.” I texted him.  

Across the floor, about ten meters away, he lifted his head. Our eyes met, and in that moment, everything around us faded.  

He was staring at me as if I was everything he had ever wanted.  

His reply came almost instantly. 

“Let’s have dinner together.”

My heart raced. “People may doubt. Your friends may question you.” 

“I don’t care. I just want you to be with me for the last time.”

His words felt like a confession in themselves.  

I smiled through the ache. 

“Then, what about a dance?” 

“Here? Duffer, it’s the office.”

“So what? Come to the cafeteria.”

“Well, let me follow you.” 

---

The cafeteria was dimly lit, almost empty except for a few late workers finishing their meals. We stood facing each other, separated by a glass door.  

For a second, we just stared—memorizing every detail, knowing this would be the last time.  

He raised his hand, pressing his palm against the glass. Without thinking, I did the same, aligning mine with his. The cold surface between us was the only thing keeping us from touching.  

We smiled.  

We melted.  

We drowned in the silence.  

And in that silence, everything was said.  

If fate had been kinder, maybe we would have met in another time, another life, where love wouldn’t be bound by circumstances.  

But this wasn’t that life.  

I blinked back tears as he whispered,

“Can we just stay here for a little longer?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

We stood there, watching the city lights flicker through the glass, listening to the ticking of the clock that was running out of time for us.  

I wanted to tell him that he had been the most beautiful part of my life. That every moment spent with him was a stolen dream I would cherish forever.  

But instead, I said, “Adi…” 

He swallowed hard. “Hmm?”

I hesitated. “Nothing.”

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something more, but then he just let out a soft sigh. “I love you, Duffer.”

A tear slipped down my cheek, but I smiled. “I know.”  

It was enough. Those two words carried everything we had never said.  

“Please, stay. We’ll figure out something. Don’t you trust us?” he asked, his voice trembling.  

I bit my lip, forcing myself to keep the smile. “You know the answer.”

The lights in the cafeteria flickered as the floor peon switched them off, unaware of the two souls frozen in time.  

Reality had caught up to us.  

I took a deep breath. “Adi, dhyan rakhna apna.”

He took a step forward. “Can I hug you? Please?” 

My feet refused to move, and I failed to manage myself.  

He closed the distance between us, his arms circling around my neck, his face buried in my shoulder. And in that moment, he let go of everything he had been holding in. His breath shuddered against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of his tears soaking into my shirt.  

I turned into his embrace, collapsing against his chest, my own tears betraying me.  

He tightened his grip, as if by holding me closer, he could keep me from slipping away.  

But we both knew—this was the end.