HOW I LOATHED HER…
A slightly crumpled sheet of paper lay in her desk drawer, right beside her resignation letter. A strange feeling crept into my chest—as if that scrap hadn’t been left there by accident, as if it had been waiting for me.
I picked it up, and memories of childhood flashed through my mind. Back in Manchester, my mates and I used to play spies, writing secret messages in invisible ink made from milk, then revealing them by holding the paper over a flame. Irina and I had laughed about those games once, sipping tea and chatting about nothing in particular.
I barely made it through the morning. At lunch, I rushed home like a madman. My heart pounded—not from fear, no, from anticipation. I turned on the stove, held the paper over the heat, and… the words appeared. Just like when we were kids. Only this time, it was the painful, grown-up truth.
*If you’re reading this, I wasn’t wrong. You remembered, you figured it out. It could’ve been different. But know this—when you humiliated me, you killed everything I ever felt for you. I think you even enjoyed tormenting me. Maybe that’s all you’re capable of. Someone hurt you once, and now you break others who won’t fight back. 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 there, frozen, clutching the letter. Why? Why had I loved her so fiercely, so obsessively—so hatefully?
She had appeared in the office out of nowhere. Walked in—and suddenly, the dull third-floor room of an old London office block felt drenched in sunlight, as if the scent of sea air and morning dew had swept in with her.
She wasn’t a stunner—not a model, no. But there was something about her that unsettled me. I knew women—sophisticated, bold, glamorous, or plain—and none had ever thrown me off course like this. Everything that had once thrilled me suddenly meant nothing.
I was used to attention, to admirers, to games. Blondes, brunettes, redheads—they passed through my life in a blur. Dates, flowers, brief flings, then back to freedom. I chose. I controlled. I never begged—I took.
But Emma…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in her scent, touch the soft honey-blonde strands of her hair, trace the curve of her wrist, listen to her laugh, watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
Emma worked under me—in every sense. She was part of my team. Not a star, not a leader. But I knew—if there was a tough job, I could give it to her, and it would be done. Efficiently, on time, without fuss.
I began to take a twisted pleasure in shouting at her. As if her mere presence gave me permission to be cruel. She’d shrink, grow fragile—and in those moments, I felt powerful. If only she’d cried. If she’d snapped. I might have softened. I might have comforted her. Maybe I’d have changed.
But she never did. She stayed silent. No complaints. No weakness. And that only infuriated me more. I tried coaxing a reaction—left chocolates on her desk, gave her little trinkets. Compliments laced with sarcasm. Lingering looks. She understood—I could tell. And I swore she felt something, too.
Sometimes, I thought if I just touched her hand, the world would stop. One day, I tried—pulled her into a loose, almost tender embrace. And she… stepped back. Just stared at me. Silent. No reproach. No scene.
It stung worse than a slap.
She was a challenge. An equal. But I refused to admit it. I needed dominance. I couldn’t bear to be vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her. How she solved problems. How she handled stress. My colleagues liked her too—too much. One even asked her out. I saw it all. And it made my blood boil.
I staged jealous tantrums. Made sure she overheard phone calls with other women—laughing, flirting, making dinner plans. And Emma? She’d just retreat. Not a glance, not a flicker of emotion.
I knew—no, I was certain—she felt it too. There had to be something. I sensed it in my bones. I was sure she’d stay. That she wouldn’t leave. That she’d endure. That she’d give in eventually.
And then—she vanished. No drama. No fight. Just gone.
On Friday, she didn’t come in. Phone off. Email deactivated. The project she’d been working on stalled. I was left looking like a fool—to the boss, to myself.
She disappeared. Melted away like mist. Untouchable. Unreachable. Mine and yet never mine.
I’d thought—it doesn’t happen like this. Thought I had control. That I could bend anything, break anything, force anything to my will.
I was wrong.
It happens.
