I‘d gone to the director’s floor for a big presentation. Important. Was settling in, arranging my work. Getting ready to perform.
Took a moment to stare down my audience. Get the vibe. Those walls hadn’t seen a joke in years. And never seen anything like me.
Then my stomach dropped. The universe wobbled. For a second (an hour?), I heard only pulse in my ears.
She was there. Could smell her.
The stranger that stole my office. Sat at the back. Calm. Focused. Humming as she scribbled into a notebook.
Disrespectful.
Distracting.
—
People were staring at me. I began the PowerPoint. Stumbled halfway through my first sentence.
Someone asked if I needed a moment. If I was buffering.
Laughter from somewhere. Not from her. She didn’t react. Didn’t speak. Just wrote page after page.
About me?
The meeting ended, I lingered. Pretended to check my phone.
Watched her disappear down the corridor. The humming faded like a thought I couldn’t hold.
I followed. Drifted around until I found the flowers. Her.
She was alone. Still writing. Still humming.
I leaned on the printer to hide my shame. Observed. Listened. Told myself it was harmless curiosity. That I only wanted to know what she wrote. What she thought about me.
Away from the others, her hum made sense. It had rhythm. Not quite a melody. More a code. Intentional.
Someone asked if I was lost. I said no. But never did find my way back.
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