For forty-five days, she mastered the art of being close without being seen.
She learned the rhythm of the office before she learned his voice.
The way the lift doors opened at 9:12 a.m. sharp.
The sound of his shoes—confident, unhurried—against the marble floor.
The exact second the biometric machine beeped when he punched in.
She adjusted her life to that sound.
Some mornings she arrived early, pretending to be efficient.
Other days, deliberately late—just enough to stand behind him for that one stolen minute.
One minute of shared air.
One minute of pretending they were just two people waiting in a line.
She never stood too close.
Never too far either.
That would've been obvious.
"Can you help with the data sheet?" someone asked one afternoon.
She hated data.
She hated numbers, hated Excel, hated sitting still.
But his name was on that file.
"Yeah," she said instantly, already pulling a chair.
"I'll do it."
From managing records that weren't hers, to transferring files she had no business touching—she found excuses to exist where he existed.
Not to speak.
Never to speak.
She spoke to everyone around him.
She laughed with the interns at the next desk.
Discussed deadlines with colleagues sitting beside him.
Even cracked jokes that earned glances in her direction.
Just not from him.
Because she knew the rules—even the unspoken ones.
He was perfect.
Calm.
Senior.
Thirty-five and settled into himself.
She was twenty-one.
Clumsy.
Notorious for spilling coffee, missing steps, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
And the office knew him.
Everyone did.
The quiet glances from girls when he walked past.
The whispers—he's charming, he's trouble, he's not serious.
A reputation polished with confidence and spoiled with attention.
If she spoke to him, she wouldn't be "bold."
She'd be defamed.
She'd be the intern who didn't know her limits.
So she watched instead.
She noticed how he never raised his voice.
How he listened when others spoke.
How his presence changed a room without him trying.
Sometimes, she felt his gaze flicker her way—brief, unreadable.
And every time it happened, she looked away first.
Because liking him was already dangerous.
Talking to him would be reckless.
And still—
Every morning, she checked the punching log.
Every evening, she memorized the way he left.
Forty-five days of standing beside him without ever standing with him.
She told herself it was nothing.
Just admiration.
Just a crush.
But deep down, she knew—
This wasn't harmless.
This was obsession, dressed up as silence.