I saw her first from across the office canteen.
She was sitting alone at the far end, near the window where the light touched her curls and made them gleam like polished copper. A novel sat open in front of her - The Picture of Dorian Gray, if my eyes weren't playing tricks - and a half-eaten croissant rested on her tray. She was hunched a little, absorbed, tapping her index finger on the table in rhythm with her reading.
She wasn't loud or flashy. Just… there. And yet, my chest tightened.
I tried to look away. I really did. But it was like something in her orbit had gently pulled me in, and my eyes wouldn't listen to reason. It wasn't desire - not immediately, at least. It was curiosity. Familiarity. A soft ache that I'd tucked into the farthest drawer of myself for years.
She flipped a page and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
I blinked and forced my gaze back to the sad, slightly stale rice pilaf in front of me.
"Carly," Jude said beside me, mouth full, "you're zoning again."
I nodded absently, pretending to listen to his monologue about our manager's spreadsheet drama. I nodded at the right times. Laughed when I thought it was appropriate.
But my mind was still caught in the corner of the room, wrapped around the girl who didn't seem to know anyone was watching.
That was the first time I saw her. I didn't know her name then.
But I wanted to.
The firm was large - seven floors of accountants, auditors, financial analysts, and enough coffee to keep a small army awake. I'd been here for almost a year. Quiet, efficient, forgettable. Just the way I liked it. I wore beige like armor, kept to my work, and stuck to facts, not feelings.
Because in this world, feelings could be dangerous.
I grew up in a home where men were told to be strong and women were told to be good. Where anyone who colored outside the lines was prayed over, whispered about, or simply erased.
So I learned to fold myself into corners. Smile gently. Keep secrets.
But now, I had seen her. And something was unfolding - slow, terrifying, and impossible to ignore.
It was two weeks before I learned her name.
I was printing out quarterly tax reports when her voice slipped into the space behind me.
"Sorry, are you in the line?"
I turned - and there she was. Closer now. Real.
Her eyes were a deep brown. The kind of brown that reminded you of dusk in late fall - soft, smoky, endless.
"N-no," I stammered. "All yours."
She smiled. Not the polite, stiff kind we pass around in offices. But a real smile. Like she saw something kind in me.
"Thanks. I'm Harper."
Harper.
The name landed softly, like a secret wish come true.
I didn't say mine immediately. My voice got lost somewhere between my throat and my fear.
Then, finally: "Carly. I'm Carly."
"Nice to meet you, Carly," she said, loading her files into the tray.
I swallowed, resisting the urge to ask her what kind of novels she liked. Or if she always read at lunch. Or if she ever felt out of place in a room full of people.
Instead, I said nothing. Just watched her walk away with the rhythm of someone who didn't need permission to exist.
That night, I lay on my bed, arms folded behind my head, replaying every word. Every breath. Every second of eye contact.
My room was dark, but I could still feel the heat of her gaze.
And I hated that I couldn't tell anyone about it.
Not my mom, who still asked when I'd bring a "nice, responsible guy" home.
Not my best friend from college, who had once said, "I don't hate them, but I don't think it's right, you know?"
Definitely not my pastor, who had once said from the pulpit that "even thoughts of sin are sin itself."
So I folded it all inside me again - this quiet thrill, this sacred fear. I wrote about her in my private journal. Just a paragraph. Just her name.
I told myself that wasn't a confession, just… documentation.
But it felt like the beginning of something. Or maybe the end of pretending.
The next few weeks became a series of moments I clung to like stolen candy.
A nod in the hallway. A shared joke at the printer.
One day, we ended up in the elevator alone. I asked what she was reading now.
"The Bell Jar."
I smiled. "That's… kind of a heavy one."
She grinned. "I like when stories tell the truth, even if it's ugly."
I didn't answer, but inside, I was burning with questions I couldn't ask.
Do you also feel like you're living half a life?
Do you ever look at a girl and wonder if it's allowed?
Do you feel it too… this quiet between us?
On a Friday, as we both left the building, she walked beside me instead of heading to the train station immediately.
"You live around here?" she asked casually.
I nodded. "Ten minutes away. You?"
"I take the train. Usually. But today, I feel like walking."
We walked in silence for a while. It wasn't awkward. Just… tentative.
When we reached the intersection, she turned to me.
"You know," she said, tucking her hands into her coat pocket, "you don't talk much, but I like that. It's like… you're always listening."
"I guess I am," I whispered.
She gave me one last smile before she crossed.
"See you Monday, Carly."
And as I watched her disappear into the soft gray of evening, something inside me whispered back:
See me.
Please, see me.