The crumpled sheet lay in her desk drawer—right next to the resignation letter. A strange feeling settled in my chest, as if that scrap of paper hadn’t been left there by chance. As if it had been waiting for me.
I picked it up, and a memory surfaced—childhood in Manchester, playing spies with the lads, writing secret messages in lemon juice, holding them over a flame to reveal the words. I’d reminisced about those games with Irene once, sipping tea and chatting about nothing in particular…
I barely made it through lunch. Rushed home like a madman, my heart pounding—not from fear, but anticipation. I turned on the cooker, held the paper over the flame… and words appeared. Just like back then. Only this time, it wasn’t child’s play. It was a painful, grown-up truth.
*If you’re reading this, I wasn’t wrong. You remembered. You figured it out. Things could’ve been different. But know this—every time you belittled me, you killed a part of what I felt for you. I think you even enjoyed it. Maybe that’s all you’re capable of. Someone hurt you once, and now you break those who won’t fight back. Did you think I couldn’t? I could. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.*
*You can win the battle and still lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye.—I.*
I sat frozen, gripping the letter. Why? Why had I loved her so fiercely, so desperately, so… hatefully?
She’d appeared in the office out of nowhere. Walked in—and it was like sunlight pouring into the room. A dull, third-floor office in an old Leeds business block suddenly smelled of sea air, sunshine, and dew on morning grass.
She wasn’t a stunner, no. But there was something about her that threw me off. Me, a man who’d known all sorts—glamorous, sharp, simple—suddenly felt utterly lost. Everything that had once thrilled me meant nothing now.
I’d been spoiled for choice—dates, flowers, fleeting affairs. Blondes, brunettes, redheads—they came and went. I chose. I controlled. I never asked. I took.
But Irene…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in her scent, run my fingers through her wheat-blonde hair, trace her wrist, feel her pulse, watch the way she bit her lip when she was nervous.
She worked under me—literally and figuratively. Not a star, not a leader. But when something complex came up, I gave it to her. It got done. Quietly. Perfectly.
I started enjoying snapping at her. As if her mere presence gave me license to be cruel. She’d shrink, fragile and silent—and in those moments, I felt like a god. If she’d just cried… if she’d cracked, I’d have softened. I’d have comforted her. Maybe I’d have changed.
But she never did. No tears. No reproach. No weakness. And that infuriated me more. I tried baiting her—left chocolates on her desk, gave her trinkets. Backhanded compliments. Lingering looks. She knew. And I knew she felt something too.
Sometimes, I swore the world would stop if I just touched her hand. So one day, I did. Pulled her close. Gently. Almost tenderly. And she… stepped back. Just looked at me. No anger. No scene.
That stung worse than a slap.
She was my equal. But I couldn’t admit it. I needed to feel superior. I couldn’t be vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her—solving problems, staying calm under pressure. The others fancied her too. One even asked her to dinner. I saw it all. It made me burn inside.
I staged jealous scenes. Flirted loudly on the phone—laughing, arranging dates, all for her benefit. And her? She just… retreated. Not a flicker of reaction.
I *knew* she felt it too. Something had to give. I was certain she’d stay. That she’d endure. That she’d cave eventually.
But she didn’t.
She left. No drama. No fight. Just… gone.
Friday came. No Irene. Phone switched off. Email blocked. Her project abandoned. I was left looking a fool—to the bosses, to myself.
She vanished. Like smoke. Like mist. Untouchable. Mine, and not mine at all.
I’d thought it couldn’t happen. Thought everything was under control. That I could bend the world to my will.
I was wrong.
Sometimes, you only learn when it’s too late.
