The 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 memories of childhood surfaced. 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 reveal the words. Irina and I had laughed about those games once, sipping tea and chatting about nothing in particular.
I barely waited for lunch. Rushing home like a madman, my heart pounded—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 a painful, grown-up truth.
*”If you’re reading this, I wasn’t wrong. You remembered. You figured it out. It could have been different. But know this—when you belittled 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. Did you think I couldn’t retaliate? I could. But then I’d have become someone else.
You can win a battle and still lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye. — Emily.”*
I sat there, paralysed. Why? Why had I adored her so fiercely, so violently, so… desperately?
She’d appeared in the office without warning. The moment she walked in, it was as if light flooded the room. Our dull, ordinary workspace on the third floor of an old Birmingham business centre suddenly smelled of sea air, sunshine, and morning dew.
She wasn’t a stunner—no supermodel. But there was something about her that threw me off balance. Me, a man who’d known all kinds of women—bold, glamorous, uncomplicated—suddenly felt lost. Everything that had once excited me just… didn’t.
I was used to attention, to admirers, to games. Blondes, redheads, brunettes—they came and went without a second thought. Dates, flowers, fleeting romances, then freedom again. I chose. I controlled. I never asked—I took.
But Emily…
I wanted to bury myself in her lap, breathe in her scent, run my fingers through her honey-blonde hair, trace her wrist and neck, feel her breath, hear her laugh, watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
Emily worked under me—literally and figuratively. She wasn’t a star, just part of my team. But I knew—if something complicated needed doing, I’d give it to her, and it’d be done. Perfectly. On time. No fuss.
I started taking pleasure in shouting at her. Her presence alone seemed to justify my cruelty. She’d shrink, fragile and defenceless—and in those moments, I felt like a god. If she’d just cried… if she’d snapped. I’d have comforted her. Maybe I’d have changed.
But she held her ground. Silently. No complaints. No weakness. And that infuriated me even more. I tried to provoke a reaction—left chocolates on her desk, gave her little gifts. Backhanded compliments. Lingering looks. She understood—I knew she did. And I was sure she felt something too.
Sometimes, I thought if I just touched her hand, the world would stop. So one day, I did. I hugged her. Gently. Almost tenderly. And she… pulled away. Just looked me in the eye. Silent. No accusations. No dramatics.
Worse than a slap.
She was my equal. A challenge. But I refused to admit it. I needed to feel superior. I couldn’t be vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her—how she handled problems, how she dealt with stress. My colleagues liked her too. *Too* much. One even asked her to dinner. I saw it all. And it made me seethe.
I staged jealous scenes. Loud phone calls with other women—flirting, laughter, dinner plans—right in front of her. And her? She just withdrew. Not a flicker of reaction.
I believed—no, I *knew*—she felt it too. That there was something between us. I could *feel* it. I was certain she’d stay. That she’d endure. That sooner or later, she’d give in.
And then she left. No scene. No shouting. Just… gone.
On Friday, she didn’t come in. Phone off. Email deleted. The project she’d been working on—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 thought it couldn’t happen. Thought I had control. That I could force, manipulate, overpower.
I was wrong.
Sometimes, you don’t get a second chance.
