**How I Loathed Her…**
A slightly crumpled sheet lay in her desk drawer—right beside her resignation letter. A strange feeling crept into my chest, as if that scrap of paper hadn’t been left there by accident, as if it had been waiting for me.
I picked it up, and suddenly, childhood memories rushed back. Back in Liverpool, the boys and I used to play spies, writing secret messages in lemon juice on paper, then holding them over a flame to reveal the words. Irene and I had once laughed about those games over coffee, chatting about nonsense…
I barely made it through lunch. I raced home like a madman, my heart pounding—not from fear, but anticipation. I turned on the hob, held the paper over the flame, and… the words appeared. Just like when we were kids. Only this time, it was 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—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 those who won’t fight back. Did you think I couldn’t strike? I could. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.*
*You can win a battle and lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye. — I.”*
I sat there, frozen, the letter in my hand. Why? Why had I loved her so fiercely, so violently, with such… loathing?
She’d appeared in the office out of nowhere. When she walked in, it was like light bursting into the room. Our dull, ordinary workspace on the third floor of some aging building in Manchester suddenly smelled of sea air, sunshine, and morning dew.
She wasn’t stunning—no model, no actress. But something about her threw me off. I’d known all kinds of women—bold, glamorous, uncomplicated—yet suddenly, none of it mattered. Everything that had once thrilled me fell flat.
I was used to attention, to games. Blondes, brunettes, redheads—they all passed through my life effortlessly. Dates, flowers, brief flings, then freedom again. I chose. I controlled. I never begged—I took.
But Irene…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in her skin, run my fingers through her light brown hair, trace her wrist and throat, listen to her laugh, watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
She worked under me—literally and figuratively. Just another member of my team. Not a star, not a leader. But I knew—if something tricky needed doing, I’d give it to her, and it would be done. Neatly, on time, without fuss.
I started taking pleasure in shouting at her. Like her mere presence gave me an excuse to be cruel. She’d shrink, fragile and defenceless—and in those moments, I felt like a god. If she’d only cry… if she’d break, I’d have comforted her. Maybe I’d have changed.
But she stayed silent. No complaints. No weakness. And that only made me angrier. I tried to provoke a reaction—left chocolates on her desk, gave trinkets, layered compliments with barbs. Stares, hints. She understood—I knew she did. And I swore she felt something too.
Sometimes, I thought if I just touched her hand, the world would stop. So one day, I did. I reached out. Held her. Gently. Almost tenderly. And she… pulled away. Just looked at me. Silent. No accusations. No dramatics.
Worse than a slap.
She was my equal. But I refused to admit it. I needed to feel superior. I couldn’t stand being vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her. How she handled problems. How she stayed calm under pressure. The others fancied her too—too much. Some even asked her out. I saw it all. And it made me furious.
I staged jealous scenes. Flirted loudly on the phone with other women—right in front of her. Laughter, invitations to dinner, all for show. And her? She just retreated. Not a glance, not a flinch—nothing.
I believed—no, I *knew*—she felt it too. Something had to give. I was certain she’d stay. That she’d endure. That she’d eventually surrender.
But she left. No tears. No fights. Just… gone.
On Friday, she didn’t come in. Phone off. Email blocked. Her project unfinished. I was left looking like a fool—to the bosses, to myself.
She vanished. Like smoke. Like a cloud. Untouchable, fleeting, mine and not mine.
I’d told myself—that’s not how things work. That I was in control. That I could force things, bend them, break them.
I was wrong.
Turns out, it *does* happen.
