**How I Hated Her…**
A slightly crumpled note lay in her desk drawer—right beside her resignation letter. A strange feeling crept into my chest, as though that scrap of paper hadn’t been left there by accident. As though it had been waiting for me.
I picked it up, and suddenly, my childhood flashed before me. Back in Manchester, my mates and I used to play spies, writing secret messages in lemon juice on paper, then holding them over a flame to read. Emma and I had actually laughed about those games once, sipping tea in some café, chatting about nothing in particular…
I barely made it through lunch. Raced home like a madman. My heart pounded—not from fear, no, but anticipation. I turned on the hob, held the paper over the heat, and… there it was. Just like when we were kids. Only this time, the words burned with a painful, grown-up truth.
*”If you’re reading this, I wasn’t wrong. You remembered and figured it out. Things could’ve been different. But when you belittled me, you killed everything I ever felt for you. I think you even enjoyed it. Maybe that’s all you’re capable of. Someone hurt you once—now you break those who won’t fight back. Think I couldn’t? I could. But then I wouldn’t be me.
You can win a battle and lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye. — E.”*
I sat there, gripping the letter, utterly frozen. Why? Why had I loved her so fiercely, so wildly, so… hatefully?
She’d walked into the office unexpectedly. Stepped in—and it was like the room flooded with light. A dull, third-floor office in an old London business park suddenly smelled of salt air, sunshine, and dew-soaked grass.
She wasn’t a stunner—no model. But something about her unravelled me. I’d known my share of women—bold, glamorous, sharp, uncomplicated—yet here I was, utterly disoriented. Everything that usually worked just… didn’t.
I was used to attention, to games, to fleeting flings. Blondes, redheads, brunettes—they came and went. Dinners, flowers, short stories, then freedom. I chose. I controlled. I took.
But Emma…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in her skin, run my fingers through those soft blonde strands, touch her wrists, her neck. Hear her laugh. Watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
She worked under me—literally and otherwise. Just another team member. Not a star. But when something needed doing right, I gave it to her. No fuss. No mistakes. Just done.
I started enjoying shouting at her. Her presence alone seemed to invite cruelty. She’d shrink, fragile and defenseless—and in those moments, I felt invincible. If she’d just cried… if she’d snapped. I’d have comforted her. Maybe even changed.
But she didn’t. Silent. No complaints. No weakness. And that infuriated me more. I left chocolates on her desk, gave little gifts. Compliments laced with barbs. Lingering looks. She understood—I knew she did. And I swore she felt something too.
Sometimes, I thought touching her hand would stop time. Once, I tried. Pulled her close. Gently. Almost tenderly. She… stepped back. Looked me dead in the eye. Silent. No scene. No tears.
Worse than a slap.
She was my equal. I just refused to admit it. I needed to feel superior. Couldn’t stand being vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her. How she handled problems. How she stayed calm under pressure. My colleagues fancied her too—some even asked her out. It made my blood boil.
I staged jealous fits. Flirted loudly on the phone. Laughing. Making plans. Right in front of her. And her? She just… folded inward. Not a flicker.
I knew—*knew*—she felt something. It had to be there. I could sense it. I was certain she’d stay. Put up with it. Break eventually.
Then she left. No drama. No shouting. Just… gone.
Friday, she didn’t show. Phone off. Email dead. Her project unfinished. I looked like a fool—to the bosses, to myself.
She vanished. Like smoke. Like mist. Untouchable. Mine and not mine.
I thought I had control. That I could force things. Bend them to my will.
I was wrong.
Turns out, some things can’t be fixed.
