There was this slightly crumpled sheet of paper lying in her desk drawer—right next to her resignation letter. A weird feeling settled in my chest, like that scrap of paper hadn’t just been left there by accident. Like it was waiting for me.
I picked it up, and suddenly, I was back in my childhood. Me and the lads in Manchester playing spies, writing secret messages in lemon juice on paper, then holding them up to a lightbulb to read them. Irene and I had joked about those games once over coffee, chatting about nothing in particular…
I barely made it through the morning. Rushed home like a madman, heart pounding—not from fear, no, from something else. I turned on the hob, held the paper over the heat, and… the words appeared. Just like when we were kids. Only this time, it wasn’t a game—it was raw, grown-up truth.
*”If you’re reading this, I was right. You remembered. You figured it out. It all could’ve been different. But when you humiliated me, you killed every bit of feeling I had for you. I think you even enjoyed it. Maybe that’s all you’re capable of. Someone hurt you once, and now you break anyone who won’t fight back. You think I couldn’t have lashed out? I could’ve. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.*
*You can win a battle and still lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye.— I.”*
I sat there, frozen, still holding the note. Why? Why had I loved her so desperately, so furiously—so violently?
She’d walked into the office out of nowhere. One moment, it was just another dull day in our third-floor cubicle farm in an old London business park, and the next, it was like sunlight had burst into the room. The stale air smelled like saltwater and fresh-cut grass.
She wasn’t some model—no bombshell. But there was something about her that threw me off completely. Me, a guy who’d been around, who’d known all kinds of women—sharp, bold, glamorous, down-to-earth—suddenly felt lost. Everything that had ever worked for me before just… didn’t.
I wasn’t used to chasing. Women came to me easily—blondes, brunettes, redheads. Dates, flowers, short flings, then back to freedom. I picked. I controlled. I never had to ask.
But Irene…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in her skin, run my fingers through those soft honey-blonde strands. To touch her wrists, her neck, listen to her laugh, watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
She worked under me—literally and otherwise. Not a star, not a leader. Just quiet, efficient. If I handed her something complicated, she’d get it done—no fuss, no mistakes.
I started enjoying the way I could yell at her. Like her mere presence gave me an excuse to be cruel. She’d shrink, go all fragile—and in those moments, I felt like a god. If she’d just cried… if she’d snapped, I might’ve softened. I might’ve comforted her. Maybe I’d have changed.
But she didn’t. No tears. No tantrums. Just silence. And that just made me angrier. I’d leave chocolates on her desk, give her little gifts—backhanded compliments, loaded glances. She knew. I could tell. And I was sure she felt something too.
Sometimes, I swore that if I just touched her hand, the whole world would stop. And one day, I did. Pulled her into a hug—soft, almost tender. And she… just stepped back. Looked me dead in the eyes. No anger. No drama.
That stung worse than a slap.
She was a challenge. My equal. But I couldn’t admit that. I needed to feel in control. I wasn’t ready to be vulnerable—not with her.
I watched her. How she handled problems. How she dealt with stress. The others liked her too—too much. One bloke even asked her out. I saw it all. And it made my blood boil.
I’d stage jealousy scenes—make fake phone calls to other women, right in front of her. Laughing, flirting, talking up fancy dinners. And her? She’d just retreat. Not a flicker.
I was certain—no, I *knew*—she felt it too. That there was something between us. I could *feel* it. I was sure she’d stay. That she’d never leave. That she’d put up with it. That sooner or later, she’d give in.
But she didn’t.
Friday came, and she wasn’t at work. Phone off. Email dead. The project she’d been on stalled halfway. I looked like an idiot—to management, to myself.
She was just… gone. Vanished like smoke. That untouchable, fleeting thing—mine, but never really mine.
And I always thought—people don’t just *leave*. I thought I had control. That I could push, bend, break things back into place.
I was wrong.
Turns out, they do.
