The One Who Got Away

​​‍​I stood in front of the mirror one last time, my face flushed with a mix of excitement and nerves. Tomorrow I'd finally tell him.

​​‍​Back in my room, I crawled into bed early, ready to sleep off the anticipation. But just as I reached for my phone to shut it off, the screen lit up with notifications from the work group chat.

​​‍​Someone had posted: "Did you guys hear? Boss is with Vivian now. I saw them having dinner together today."

​​‍​I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen.

​​‍​Another message popped up: "Dinner means nothing. How does that prove they're together?"

​​‍​The original poster replied immediately: "What about kissing? Does that count?"

​​‍​The group exploded. People who'd been lurking for weeks suddenly materialized, and messages flew back and forth so fast the screen couldn't stop pinging.

​​‍​This chat had Ethan blocked from the start—he knew about it and didn't care. He understood that his team would never speak freely if the boss was watching. Any leader who forced their way into employee chats just didn't get it.

​​‍​I watched the gossip heat up, my heart growing colder with each message.

​​‍​Then someone mentioned me: "What about Mia though? Boss is always with her, isn't he?"

​​‍​@sarah_marketing: "He treats her like a servant. What did you think it was?"

​​‍​@david_dev: "I don't think so, I didn't mean anyone specifically—"

​​‍​@frank_sales: "Hey, stop. She's in here."The screen went quiet.

​​‍​Just like that, everyone disappeared—back into lurking mode or off to open new private chats. Ones that blocked me.

​​‍​I stared at my phone, that message burning into my retinas.

​​‍​"He treats her like a servant."

​​‍​Was that what they all thought? That I was just someone he ordered around, someone convenient to have nearby?

​​‍​My fingers trembled as I scrolled back up through the chat.

​​‍​They'd been kissing.

​​‍​Tomorrow was supposed to be our anniversary—three years since I'd joined his team, since he'd called me out of nowhere and saved my life when I was drowning in debt and panic during the worst months of the pandemic. I'd planned to tell him everything. That I'd liked him since college, that these past three years working beside him had only intensified those feelings, that I saw the way he looked at me sometimes and thought maybe, just maybe, he felt something too.

​​‍​I opened my notes app and found the confession I'd rehearsed a hundred times. My thumb hovered over it for a long moment before I hit delete.

​​‍​Then I turned off my phone and lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.

​​‍​Sleep didn't come.

​​‍​The next morning I still went to the office early. Some masochistic part of me needed to see it with my own eyes. Or maybe I just couldn't stop myself.

​​‍​His office light was already on when I arrived, and I clutched the wrapped book I'd bought him weeks earlier—a first edition of a novel he'd mentioned loving in college.

​​‍​That's when I saw them.

​​‍​Vivian was in his office, leaning casually against his desk with the easy confidence of someone who belonged there. The investor's daughter. I'd met her twice at company dinners—polished, poised, clearly interested in far more than business metrics. But this morning felt different.

​​‍​She was laughing at something he'd said, one perfectly manicured hand resting on his arm like she had every right to be there.

​​‍​I stood frozen in the doorway, the wrapped book suddenly heavy as lead in my hands.

​​‍​Then Vivian turned, and the morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught her face fully. My stomach dropped.

​​‍​She looked like her. Like Ethan's ex-girlfriend—the one who'd left him three years earlier to study art abroad, who'd insisted on a clean break and shattered him so completely he'd poured every ounce of himself into building this company just to have something—anything—other than the heartbreak.

​​‍​Not identical. Not a doppelgänger. But the resemblance was unmistakable: the same delicate bone structure, the same thoughtful tilt of the head when listening, as if analyzing a painting, the same graceful posture that suggested she was always aware of exactly how she looked from every angle. He hadn't moved on at all. He'd simply found a replacement—someone to fill the exact shape of the void she'd left behind.

​​‍​"Oh!" Vivian spotted me first, straightening with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good morning! You're here early."

​​‍​Ethan turned. For a split second his expression froze—surprise? Guilt? His eyes darted away before I could read it, and in that instant I realized I'd never truly been able to read him at all.

​​‍​"Morning," I managed. My voice sounded distant, unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.

​​‍​"We were just—" Vivian began.

​​‍​"Sorry, I forgot something in my car." The lie slipped out smooth and automatic. "I'll be right back."

​​‍​I didn't wait for a response. I turned and walked away before my legs could give out. Down the stairs, through the empty lobby, out into the parking lot where the cold morning air hit my flushed face like a slap.

​​‍​I made it to my car, climbed inside, locked the doors. Sat in the driver's seat staring at the stupid wrapped book in my lap—this monument to my own delusion, this proof of how completely I'd misread everything. The confession I'd planned died in my throat before I'd even had the chance to speak it.

​​‍​I'd been so pathetically hopeful, so desperately blind. He didn't want me. He wanted the ghost of the girl who'd left him. And Vivian looked just like her.

​​‍​Six years earlier

​​‍​To understand how thoroughly I'd misread everything, you need to know how it started—how Ethan became my salvation long before he became my heartbreak.

​​‍​Six years ago I was a sophomore drowning in student debt, juggling three part-time jobs just to keep my head above water. My family couldn't help; they barely had enough for themselves. Loans covered tuition, but rent, food, books, the endless small expenses that piled up—those were all on me.

​​‍​Ethan was a senior, two years ahead and impossibly out of reach. Old money—the kind of family that had buildings named after them on campus. Smart, driven, effortlessly confident. He ran the business club, led study groups people fought to join, and had a girlfriend who looked like she'd stepped out of an art museum.

​​‍​I'd attended one of his study sessions once. I struggled to keep up with the rapid-fire discussion, left feeling small and inadequate. We'd exchanged maybe ten words total. I doubted he even remembered my name. But I remembered him—the way he commanded a room, the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the easy way he moved through the world like he belonged everywhere. I'd liked him from that safe, impossible distance—the way you like a sunset or a painting you know you'll never own.

​​‍​Then the pandemic hit, and my carefully balanced life collapsed overnight. Tutoring jobs vanished first as parents pulled their kids from everything. The coffee shop cut hours, then closed completely. My weekend campus bookstore shift ended when campus shut down. Within two weeks I went from three jobs to zero.

​​‍​My savings lasted exactly six weeks.

​​‍​I applied everywhere—fast food, grocery stores, warehouses, anything still hiring. But so was everyone else. I had no connections, no family name to drop, no safety net. Just mounting debt, a half-finished degree I was trying to finish through glitchy Zoom calls, and panic that woke me at 3 a.m. every night.

​​‍​Rent was due. Loan payments were due. I had \$47 in my checking account and a fridge that held nothing but condiments and increasingly desperate hope.

​​‍​That's when Ethan called.

​​‍​I stared at his name on the screen for three full rings, convinced it had to be a mistake or a butt dial. We hadn't spoken since his graduation three years earlier. I wasn't even sure he knew my last name.

​​‍​"Hey," he said when I finally answered, his tone casual, like we talked every day. "I heard you're looking for work."

​​‍​I had no idea how he'd heard. No idea why he'd think of me.

​​‍​"I'm starting something," he continued before I could respond. "A SaaS platform—small team, solid concept, seed funding already secured. I need people who are smart and willing to work hard." He paused; I could hear the smile in his voice. "You interested?"

​​‍​I should have asked questions—what's the role, what's the pay, why me of all people? But all I could think about was my bank account balance and the eviction notice taped to my door.

​​‍​"Yes," I said. "When do I start?"

​​‍​"Monday work for you?"

​​‍​"Monday's perfect."

​​‍​"Great. I'll email you the details."

​​‍​He hung up and I sat in my tiny studio apartment, staring at my phone while trying to process what had just happened as rain pattered against the single window.

​​‍​I cried for twenty minutes, then went to the grocery store and bought real food for the first time in weeks.

​​‍​Back then, working with Ethan was different than I'd expected.

​​‍​When I stayed late debugging frustrating code, he'd order food for whoever was still in the office. When I mentioned struggling with a technical issue, he'd pull up a chair and work through it with me until we cracked it. When my car broke down and I arrived forty minutes late after three buses, he started offering rides home.

​​‍​"It's on my way," he'd say—which was a complete lie. His place was in the opposite direction.

​​‍​At first I told myself it was just good management. He treated everyone with that level of care. Professional courtesy from a boss who valued his team.

​​‍​But then came the small things that were harder to dismiss. He remembered exactly how I took my coffee: oat milk, no sugar, extra espresso shot. He noticed I got anxious before big presentations and started rehearsing with me the night before. Inside jokes developed between us. Comfortable silences that felt more intimate than they should. Moments when our eyes met and held a beat too long.

​​‍​I tried not to hope. Tried to keep my feelings locked in that same safe, impossible place they'd occupied since college.

​​‍​But he made it so hard.

​​‍​Six months in, we were the last ones in the office on a Friday night. I was wrestling with a bug that should have been simple but had turned into a nightmare. Ethan pulled up a chair beside me—close enough that I could smell his cologne, that subtle, expensive scent that always made my pulse jump.

​​‍​We worked through it together, heads bent over the same screen. When we finally found the issue, he laughed. "There. That's your culprit."

​​‍​"God, I'm an idiot."

​​‍​"You're not an idiot. You're tired." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "It's almost midnight. Come on, I'll drive you home."

​​‍​In the car he asked, "Do you ever think about what would've happened if I hadn't called that day?"

​​‍​The question caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

​​‍​"When I offered you the job." He kept his eyes on the road, his profile lit by passing streetlights. "You sounded desperate on the phone—like you were drowning and I'd thrown you a rope. I've always wondered how bad it really was."

​​‍​We didn't usually talk about the before.

​​‍​"Pretty bad," I admitted quietly. "I had maybe a week before I'd have had to drop out, move back home if my family would even take me. I was applying everywhere, willing to take anything. I was terrified."

​​‍​He was silent for a long moment. Then: "I'm glad you didn't have to make that choice."

​​‍​"Me too." I watched the city lights blur past the window. "You saved my life, you know. I never properly thanked you for that."

​​‍​"You thank me every day," he said softly. "By being here. By believing in what we're building." He pulled up outside my building and turned to look at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You're the best hire I've ever made, Mia."

​​‍​The words hung between us, warm and weighted with something I didn't dare examine too closely.

​​‍​"Good night, Ethan," I whispered.

​​‍​"Good night."

​​‍​I got out, watched him drive away, my heart pounding. That was the first time I let myself really think it: Maybe he feels something too.

​​‍​Over the next few months I convinced myself I was right. I knew about his ex—everyone in our college circle had known about the breakup. She'd left for art school in Europe three years earlier, insisted on a clean break, and it had devastated him. He'd thrown himself into work, pulled sixteen-hour days, hadn't dated anyone.

​​‍​But that was three years ago. Surely he'd moved on. Surely the way he looked at me sometimes, the specific care he took with me, the time we spent together—surely it meant something.

​​‍​So I made a decision. On our three-year anniversary—my third full year with the company—I would tell him the truth. That I'd liked him since college. That working with him had only intensified those feelings. That I understood if he didn't feel the same, but I needed him to know.

​​‍​I spent the next two weeks planning it carefully, writing and rewriting the confession until I knew exactly what I wanted to say and practiced it in front of the mirror until it sounded natural.

​​‍​I had visualized it a hundred times: the quiet moment in his office after hours, the way I'd hand him the book, the slight smile he'd give when he realized what it meant, the breath I'd take before saying everything I'd carried for so long. It would be our three-year anniversary at the company—exactly the right marker for something new to begin.

​​‍​And then I saw that message in the group chat. They'd been kissing.

​​‍​The words landed like a door slamming shut. All the careful planning, the fragile hope I'd nursed for weeks, the version of tomorrow I'd built in my head—it all collapsed in an instant. The confession that had felt brave now felt foolish. The gift that had felt thoughtful now felt like evidence of how blind I'd been.

​​‍​I stared at the screen until the chat blurred, the excitement I'd carried for days replaced by a cold, hollow ache. Tomorrow wasn't going to be the beginning of anything. It was going to be the end of the dream I'd let myself believe in.

​​‍​The next morning I saw Vivian in his office, making him smile in a way I'd never managed, looking so much like the girl who'd left him that my stomach twisted into knots. In that moment, clarity cut through me like broken glass: I'd been delusional. He didn't want me. He wanted her ghost, and I was just the convenient servant who'd mistaken professional kindness for something deeper.

​​‍​The next few days blurred into forced normalcy. I showed up, did my job, kept my eyes off Ethan's office. The wrapped book stayed hidden in my car's trunk—a secret monument to my own stupidity.

​​‍​I told myself I could handle it. Shove the feelings back into that locked place and pretend nothing had changed. Then Vivian started coming to the office every day.

​​‍​She'd arrive around ten with coffee for Ethan—expensive lattes from the downtown place that cost more than my weekly lunch budget. She'd perch on the edge of his desk during meetings she had no business attending, offering suggestions in that sweet, thoughtful voice that made everything sound perfectly reasonable. And Ethan never asked her to leave. Never hinted she didn't belong. He'd smile at her comments, nod along, let her hand rest on his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

​​‍​I repeated to myself that it didn't matter. That I had no right to care. But then she noticed the photo on my desk.

​​‍​It was from our team's first major launch six months earlier. We'd pulled eighty-hour weeks, survived on caffeine and sheer will, and when we finally pushed the update live, Ethan had insisted on taking everyone out to celebrate. In the picture, his arm was slung around my shoulders; both of us were grinning like exhausted idiots, triumphant and alive. I'd kept it there as a good memory. A reminder of what we'd built together.

​​‍​Vivian picked it up on a Thursday morning, her manicured fingers tracing the frame's edge. "You two look close," she said, her tone light and curious. Her eyes weren't on me—they were fixed on Ethan's office, where he was on a call.

​​‍​I kept typing, fingers steady on the keys. "We work well together."

​​‍​"Hmm." She set the photo down gently, deliberately. "That's nice."

​​‍​The sweetness in her voice was razor-thin, barely concealing the edge beneath. My skin prickled, but I didn't respond. Didn't give her the satisfaction.

​​‍​She waited a beat, then smiled wider. "I should get one of these for my desk. A photo of Ethan and me, I mean. We took the cutest ones at dinner last week."

​​‍​My fingers froze over the keyboard.

​​‍​"You should see them," she continued, pulling out her phone. "Here—"

​​‍​I didn't look. Couldn't.

​​‍​She laughed softly. "Right, you're busy—I'll show you later."

​​‍​She left my desk and headed straight for Ethan's office, heels clicking with confident precision. Through the glass walls I watched her lean in close, show him something on her phone. Watched him smile, say something that made her laugh.

​​‍​My chest tightened, like someone was sitting on it.

​​‍​The real confrontation came that afternoon, in front of the entire open office.

​​‍​Vivian had brought lunch—expensive takeout from Ethan's favorite spot. She set it up in his office, called him in from a meeting, made a production of it. Then she came back out to the main floor, all smiles and casual grace.

​​‍​She stopped by my desk on her way out. "Mia," she said, her voice carrying across the quiet space. "Can I ask you something?"

​​‍​Several people nearby stopped working, pretending not to listen.

​​‍​"Sure," I said carefully.

​​‍​"Do you have a boyfriend?"

​​‍​The question landed like a slap. "No. Why?"

​​‍​"Oh, just curious." She tilted her head, studying me with those artist's eyes. "It's just—you and Ethan spend a lot of time together. I wanted to make sure I wasn't... stepping on anyone's toes."

​​‍​My face burned as I said, "We're colleagues. That's all."

​​‍​"Of course, of course." Her smile never wavered. "I just think it's important to set boundaries now that Ethan and I are together, you know? Nothing personal—I'm sure you understand. When you're in a relationship, you have to be respectful of it."

​​‍​I said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make it worse.

​​‍​She turned then, raising her voice just enough for everyone to hear. "Ethan!"

​​‍​He looked up from his office, confused.

​​‍​"Come here for a sec?" She waved him over, all sweetness.

​​‍​He came out, probably wondering what was happening. Vivian immediately linked her arm through his, a possessive gesture that made my stomach turn.

​​‍​"I was just thinking," she said, loud enough for the whole floor, "now that we're official, we should set some boundaries, right? Like with other women?"

​​‍​Ethan's expression shifted—surprise, maybe discomfort. "What do you mean?"

​​‍​"Just—you know." She laughed, light but pointed. "Appropriate distance. No late-night drives home with other women, no personal photos on desks, that kind of thing. Just us doing couple things together." She looked up at him, eyes wide and earnest. "Don't you think that's fair?"

​​‍​The office had gone completely silent. Everyone pretended to work, but the attention felt like a physical weight.

​​‍​Ethan glanced around, aware of the audience. His jaw tightened.

​​‍​Say no, I thought desperately. Tell her she's being ridiculous.

​​‍​"Sure," he said.

​​‍​That single word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.

​​‍​Vivian beamed. "I knew you'd understand. You're so good to me." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, right there in front of everyone.

​​‍​I stared at my screen, vision blurring at the edges.

​​‍​He'd agreed just like that—no hesitation, no pushback—and let her rewrite the boundaries between us without a second thought.

​​‍​After that, I started keeping my distance.

​​‍​I took the photo off my desk and put it in a drawer. Declined his offers for rides home, called other friends instead. Kept responses brief and professional when he stopped by. Told him I could handle late-night problems alone.

​​‍​At first he didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he thought it was for the best.

​​‍​But after a week, something shifted.

​​‍​I felt his eyes on me more often, tracking me across the office. When I left with someone else at the end of the day, I'd catch him watching from his window, expression unreadable. In meetings he directed questions at me more than usual, like he was testing whether I'd engage.

​​‍​I kept my head down, answers clipped and professional.

​​‍​Then came the Friday when my friend canceled last-minute—her kid was sick, she couldn't pick me up. I stood in the lobby debating bus vs. expensive rideshare when Ethan appeared beside me.

​​‍​"I'll drive you," he said. Not a question.

​​‍​"It's fine. I can take the bus."

​​‍​"Mia." His voice had that edge—the one he used when he'd decided and expected compliance. "Get in the car."

​​‍​I should have argued. Should have insisted.

​​‍​Instead I followed him to the parking garage.

​​‍​The first ten minutes passed in tense silence. He drove with his usual focused competence, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road. But tension radiated off him; I could see his jaw clench at every red light.

​​‍​Finally he spoke.

​​‍​"Are you avoiding me because of her?"

​​‍​I kept my eyes on the passenger window. "I don't know what you mean."

​​‍​"Don't." His voice sharpened. "Don't play dumb. You've been cutting me off for weeks. No more late nights, no more conversations, you won't even let me drive you home. Is this because I'm with Vivian?"

​​‍​"We're colleagues," I said quietly. "I'm being professional."

​​‍​"Professional." He laughed, bitter and harsh. "Right. Because we were never friends, were we? Never anything more than boss and employee."

​​‍​The words stung more than they should have. "Even friends need boundaries when one of them is in a relationship."

​​‍​"So that's it?" His hands tightened on the wheel. "You're just going to cut me out of your life?"

​​‍​"I'm not cutting you out. I'm giving you space."

​​‍​"I don't want space!" The words exploded from him, sharp enough that I flinched. "I want—"

​​‍​He stopped himself, breathing hard.

​​‍​The silence that followed was suffocating.

​​‍​"What do you want, Ethan?" I asked, voice barely a whisper.

​​‍​He didn't answer for a long moment. Then: "I want things to go back to how they were."

​​‍​"They can't." I finally turned to look at him. "You have a girlfriend now. Things are different."

​​‍​"Why?" He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Why does that have to change everything between us?"

​​‍​I couldn't believe he was asking this. Couldn't believe he was this oblivious. "Because no matter how close friends are, they can't be closer than your girlfriend. That's just how it works."

​​‍​He was quiet, processing. Then his jaw tightened, eyes turning hard. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost dangerous.

​​‍​"What are you afraid of?"

​​‍​My heart stuttered. "What?"

​​‍​"You heard me." He pulled over abruptly, the car jerking to a stop on a side street. He turned to face me fully, eyes intense in the dim light. "What are you really afraid of? Is it because I'm with Vivian?"

​​‍​I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

​​‍​"Ethan—"

​​‍​"What if I wasn't?" The question hung between us like a live wire. "What if I didn't have a girlfriend? Would you still be running away from me?"

​​‍​The question was so unfair, so cruel, that something inside me snapped.

​​‍​"Let me out." My hand fumbled for the door handle.

​​‍​"Mia—"

​​‍​"Let me out!"

​​‍​But he was faster. His hand shot out, catching my wrist. Suddenly he was too close, face inches from mine, eyes searching for something I couldn't give.

​​‍​"Why won't you just talk to me?" he demanded.

​​‍​I slapped his hand away. Hard. The crack of skin on skin echoed in the confined space.

​​‍​He stared at me, shocked.

​​‍​Then, impossibly, he smiled. "Why are you so worked up about this?"

​​‍​That smile broke something in me. Tears burned behind my eyes, hot and humiliating, and I couldn't stop them from spilling over. They slid down my cheeks in silence while I sat frozen, hating him and hating myself more for being so transparent, so pathetic.

​​‍​His smile died instantly.

​​‍​"Mia," he said, voice changing—uncertain now. "I didn't mean—"

​​‍​"Let me go," I whispered.

​​‍​He released my wrist like it had burned him, hands retreating to his lap.

​​‍​I got out of the car and started walking. Didn't look back even when I heard his door open, heard him call my name. Just kept moving, vision blurred with tears, chest so tight I could barely breathe.

​​‍​Behind me, his car door slammed. The engine started. He drove past slowly, like he was waiting for me to change my mind and get back in.

​​‍​I didn't.

​​‍​Eventually he sped up and disappeared around the corner.

​​‍​I walked the rest of the way home in the rain that had started falling, each step feeling like a small death. Because I finally understood what I'd been trying not to see.

​​‍​He knew. He'd always known how I felt about him. And he'd been playing with it—testing the boundaries of my devotion without ever having to commit to anything. He got to keep me close, keep me available, keep me hoping—all while being with someone else.

​​‍​He knew, and he didn't care.

​​‍​Or worse—he cared just enough to want to keep me around, but not enough to actually choose me.

​​‍​The next morning I requested a desk reassignment through HR. Moved myself to the far side of the office, out of Ethan's direct line of sight.

​​‍​I also asked to shift my hours—coming in earlier, leaving later—anything to minimize the chance of crossing paths with him.

​​‍​The HR manager looked concerned when I submitted the request. "Is everything okay, Mia? Did something happen?"

​​‍​"Just want a change of scenery," I lied smoothly. "Better for my productivity."

​​‍​She approved it without pressing further.

​​‍​When I arrived at my new desk on Monday, I could feel his gaze from across the open floor—steady, searching. I didn't look up. Just unpacked my laptop, plugged in my headphones, and started working as if the space around me had always been this quiet and distant.

​​‍​Around noon he appeared at the edge of my new cubicle.

​​‍​"What are you doing over here?" His voice was carefully neutral, but the tension underneath was unmistakable.

​​‍​"Working." I kept my eyes on the screen, fingers moving steadily across the keys.

​​‍​"Mia—"

​​‍​"Is there something work-related you need, Ethan?"

​​‍​The formal use of his name—cool, professional—made him flinch. I caught it in my peripheral vision: a slight tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something like hurt or confusion.

​​‍​"We need to talk," he said quietly.

​​‍​"We just did." I finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for only a second. "Was there anything else?"

​​‍​A long pause stretched between us. The office hum faded into the background—the distant keyboard clicks, the low murmur of calls, the faint scent of coffee from the break room.

​​‍​"No," he said at last.

​​‍​He turned and walked away. I felt his absence like a physical thing—cool air rushing in where warmth had once been.

​​‍​I exhaled slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. This was what moving on looked like: small, deliberate steps. No drama. No confrontation. Just distance, until the space between us felt permanent.

​​‍​The next two weeks became a masterclass in professional distance. I answered his messages with the bare minimum—short, factual replies. In meetings I spoke only when directly asked, kept my eyes on my notes or screen. When he tried to catch my gaze across the room, I looked away.

​​‍​I watched him grow increasingly frustrated: the way his jaw would tighten when I left with other people at the end of the day, the excuses he found to walk past my new desk, the lingering pauses when he stopped by as if waiting for me to break the silence. But he never said anything directly. Never confronted me again.

​​‍​Vivian, on the other hand, seemed thrilled with the new arrangement. She'd flash me these little victorious smiles—small, knowing curves of her lips that said she understood exactly what she'd accomplished. I smiled back. Let her think she'd won. Because the truth was, I'd already lost. I'd lost the moment I let myself hope.

​​‍​What I didn't know was that things were about to get so much worse.

​​‍​Despite my efforts to keep distance, Ethan refused to let me fade completely. He still pulled me into projects, insisted on my input in meetings, and—despite Vivian's loudly proclaimed boundaries—offered rides home whenever he saw me waiting for the bus. "You're part of the team," he'd say, jaw set in that stubborn way I used to find endearing. "I'm not going to treat you differently because of her rules."

​​‍​Every time he did it, I could feel Vivian's eyes on us—watching, calculating, her satisfaction slowly curdling into something sharper.

​​‍​It came to a head on a Wednesday evening, three weeks after I'd moved my desk.

​​‍​I was working late on a critical bug fix, the office emptying around me as people trickled out. Around eight Ethan stopped by my desk.

​​‍​"How's it going?"