By the time I walked back into the office after lunch, something inside me had shifted.
I wasn't going to let whispers shrink me.
Not when I'd worked this hard. Not when I knew who I was and how far I'd come.
I walked past the cubicles with my shoulders squared, my gaze steady.
When I reached my desk, I opened a new email draft.
A short message. Polite. Clear.
Subject: Morning Briefing – All Teams
Hi all,
Quick reminder that our Q2 briefing starts promptly at 11 a.m. in the main conference room tomorrow.
Looking forward to seeing everyone's ideas in motion.
Let's keep the focus where it belongs, on the work.
Best,
Ella M.
I hit send.
And then I stood.
I crossed the floor toward the very breakroom where the whispers had found me earlier.
This time, the same two employees were there, one pouring coffee, the other pretending to check Slack on her phone.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't throw accusations.
I just smiled, leaned against the counter, and said in a tone dipped in steel:
"Isn't it funny how people can spend all day at work and still forget what professionalism looks like?"
The woman with the phone looked up, guilty, cornered.
I didn't blink.
"I'd just hate for someone to confuse curiosity with disrespect," I added.
"Especially when some of us are too busy earning our roles to entertain office stories."
There was a beat of silence.
Just one.
Then I turned and walked out, leaving the sting of my words hanging in the air like perfume.
The Quiet Tension with Mr. Michael
That afternoon, a meeting invite popped up unexpectedly:
Michael Shaw – Office 4B – 3:00 p.m.
Subject: Quick Check-In
I hesitated for a second. Then clicked "Accept."
By 2:58, I was knocking on his door.
"Come in," Mr. Michael said, his voice as smooth and unreadable as always.
I stepped in.
His office was clean and minimal, just like him. Polished surfaces. Straight lines.
The scent of something faintly" woodsy was in the air.
He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. "Sit, please."
I did.
There was silence at first.
He studied me, his hands clasped neatly in front of him.
"I saw the message you sent this afternoon," he began. "Good leadership."
"Thank you," I replied, cautiously.
More silence.
Then, slowly, his expression shifted, his gaze softening, just slightly.
"You've always had a quiet strength, Ella. Not everyone notices it… But I do."
I felt my pulse shift, something fluttering between my ribs.
"Thank you," I said again, unsure what else to offer.
Mr. Michael nodded, then leaned back in his chair.
"I want you to know something," he continued. "Whatever noise surrounds you, gossip, assumptions, distractions, don't let it affect your clarity.
You belong here. Your work speaks louder than any rumor ever could."
I nodded, breathing just a little deeper.
But just as I stood to leave, he added, his voice lower, "And Ella… there are things I don't say out loud.
That doesn't mean I don't feel them."
My fingers froze on the strap of my files.
I didn't turn. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, suspended in the weight of his words.
When I finally left, my heels echoed down the corridor like punctuation marks after an unspoken confession.
Back at my desk, I sat with my heart full of everything unspoken.
The gossip had quieted, for now.
My message had been delivered.
But the real noise?
It lived inside me.
Joe, steady and affectionate.
Mr. Michael, composed but charged with something unsaid.
And me? Somewhere between.
Trying to figure out which voice to listen to, her past, her present… or something entirely new.
"The Dinner That Wasn't" – A Missed Moment
A quiet apartment, soft lights, and growing silence
I unlocked my front door with a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
The memory of Joe still lingered like a secret pressed to my skin.
There was something about the way he'd looked at me today, in the office.
I tossed my bag onto the couch and headed straight to the kitchen.
It wasn't a date, not officially. But still, I pulled out the good wine, the one we both liked, and lit a candle, not for romance, I told myself, just for ambiance.
A soft playlist filled the room as I cooked, the sizzle of garlic and butter blending with mellow jazz.
I checked my phone once. Then again.
No message.
Still, I set the table for two.
The pasta was ready. I plated it neatly, garnished it with fresh basil, and glanced at the door.
He'd said, "Text me when you get home."
I had. He hadn't replied.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
The food grew cold.
I moved to the couch, legs curled beneath me, phone in hand.
I stared at the last message, blue ticks, but no response.
No "On my way." No "Sorry, running late." Just silence.
Maybe he got busy. Meetings, traffic… things happen.
But the optimism faded as the night deepened.
I changed into pajamas, poured myself a second glass of wine, and sat back at the table alone.
I didn't cry. Not exactly.
But a tightness settled in my chest, a familiar ache of being almost chosen. Almost prioritized.
I picked at the pasta, then finally pushed the plate aside and blew out the candle.
Alone in the dim kitchen, I whispered to myself, "It's just dinner. It doesn't mean anything."
But the silence, thick and persistent, said otherwise.
"The Morning After
I was halfway through stirring sugar into my coffee when the knock came, two soft taps, then one louder.
Not my doorbell, not frantic, but familiar.
I didn't need to check the peephole. I just knew.
Joe.
I opened the door slowly. He stood there, hands in his pockets, wearing the same charcoal suit from yesterday, slightly rumpled, like he hadn't slept much.
His eyes met mine with a blend of caution and guilt.
"Hey," he said.
I folded my arms across my chest, keeping my expression unreadable. "Hi."
"Can I come in?"
I stepped aside without answering. He entered quietly, glancing at the untouched plates still sitting in the sink, a cold reminder of the dinner that never happened.
"I was going to come," he started, voice low. "I wanted to."
"But you didn't." My tone was calm. Too calm.
Joe exhaled. "Something came up at work.
A crisis with the Tokyo team, time zones, and chaos. I had to jump on a call that lasted till 1 am.
I should've texted. I know. I messed up."
I said nothing.
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice softening. "Ella… I didn't forget. I just… didn't know how to balance it. You. Work. Us."
"You made it look so easy in your office," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I got carried away," I admitted. "Being around you… It feels good. Feels right.
But I'm still figuring it out. I want this to work. I want us to work.
"Yeah, I know."
But I'm not always going to get it right."
I looked at him. Looked.
His eyes were sincere. But also hesitation, like a man who wanted something real but didn't know if he could hold it without fumbling.
"You don't get to half-show up, Joe," I said gently but firmly.
"If you're in, be in. If you're not, don't force it."
A pause.
"I'm in," he said. "I just need you to be patient with me."
I held his gaze. "Then start by being honest. Not just when it's convenient."
He nodded, stepping closer, slowly. "You're right. I owe you more. I'll do better."
I didn't smile, but I didn't step away either.
Just a silence between us again, but this one is less cold.
More waiting. More hopeful.