When Life Was Still Simple (PART 1 - BEGINNING)

Title: When Life Was Still Simple (PART 1)

BAB PERMULAAN - BAB 21

The office had quieted down after the evening rush. Papers were stacked neatly, computers dimmed, and only the hum of the air conditioner remained. Mira sat at her desk, pretending to type, though her mind was elsewhere—on John.

For years, they had been more than just colleagues. Coffee partners, secret keepers, the kind of friends who could laugh at the smallest things even during the busiest days. To Mira, he was her quiet anchor, her unspoken dream.

But today, the air felt heavier. The whispers were already spreading. John was getting married.

She didn’t want to believe it until she heard it from him.

John appeared at her desk, his usual warm smile softening the tension.

“Still working, Mira? You never change.”

She forced a small smile. “And you always catch me. Shouldn’t you be preparing for your… big event?”

He chuckled. “Ah, so you’ve heard.”

Mira’s fingers clenched around her pen. “Everyone has.”

For a moment, silence hung between them. She searched his face, wondering if she could still find the version of John who once laughed with her over cheap instant noodles at midnight, who once walked her home when rain caught them by surprise.

“So… she must be really special,” Mira said softly.

John’s eyes lit up, and that sparkle pierced her heart.

“She is. Kind, patient… the kind of woman who makes me want to be better.”

Mira nodded, but her throat tightened. That should have been me, she thought. If only I had told you sooner.

Trying to mask the tremor in her voice, she asked, “John… did you ever… think about us? I mean, all those years working late, laughing together… did it ever mean something more to you?”

John looked at her, taken aback. His smile faltered into something gentler. “Mira, you’re one of the best parts of my life here. You’ve been my friend, my strength in this place. But… I never saw us that way. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Her chest ached. She wanted to cry, to scream, to tell him she had waited for years. But instead, she only smiled—a trembling, broken smile.

“No, don’t apologize. I’m happy for you, John. Really.”

He reached out, placing a hand on hers briefly. “You’ll find someone, Mira. Someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen.”

She held her breath, memorizing the warmth of his touch, knowing it was the last time she would feel it.

The day of the wedding came. Mira sat among the guests, her heart pounding as John stood at the altar, waiting for his bride. He looked radiant, complete. And when the bride walked in, his smile shone brighter than Mira had ever seen.

Her eyes blurred with tears. She clapped when everyone else did, her lips whispering words swallowed by the music:

"If only I had spoken earlier… maybe this smile could have been mine."

That night, as she walked home alone under the city lights, regret clung to her like a shadow. Yet beneath the pain, a fragile promise grew: never again would she let silence steal her chance at love.

Sometimes, I would watch Mira at the office, admiring how she and John shared moments that seemed like pieces of a love story. I thought to myself: If only I could find that kind of bond one day.

I lived in a small house, where every corner echoed with love. My parents were my pillars—Father with his wisdom and firm voice, Mother with her warmth and endless patience.

At home, I was never alone. My older brother was the steady one, always teasing me, always protecting me in his own stubborn way. And then there was my little sister—her laughter was like music, filling the house with light, making even the hardest days feel soft.

Life was simple. Breakfast was always a family affair: the clinking of spoons, my mother’s gentle reminders not to be late, Father reading the newspaper with his glasses low on his nose. After school or work, we would gather again for dinner, sharing stories, arguments, and dreams.

I used to think that kind of happiness would last forever. That no matter where life took us, this warmth would never fade.

Sometimes, I would look at Mira—my colleague—and admire her closeness with John. They were like characters out of a quiet love story. A part of me wondered if one day, I too would find someone who made me smile that way.

But at that time, my world was still whole. My heart was still untouched by longing. And my story… had only just begun.

When Life Was Still Simple (Part 2)

Mornings in our house were always the same—yet never dull.

The sound of my mother calling from the kitchen,

“Bangun, nanti lewat!”

The smell of fried eggs and warm rice filling the air.

My brother, always the late riser, would shuffle in with messy hair, pretending to still be half-asleep.

“Kenapa tak tunggu aku? Baru nak mimpi indah,” he’d grumble, and I would roll my eyes while my little sister giggled at him.

Father sat by the window with his newspaper, glasses low on his nose. He rarely spoke during breakfast, but his presence was enough—his silence was strength, and when he did speak, his words carried weight.

Evenings were my favorite. We would sit together at the dinner table, plates clattering, voices overlapping. My sister would chatter endlessly about school, my brother would joke until Mother scolded him for talking with his mouth full, and Father would finally laugh, breaking his usual seriousness.

Afterward, sometimes we gathered in the living room. My brother and I teased each other over silly things, my sister snuggled close to Mother, and Father watched us with quiet pride. Those were the nights I wished would last forever—the kind of nights you don’t realize are treasures until much later in life.

At that time, love and heartbreak were only stories I heard from others. I thought of Mira sometimes, watching her from across the office. She seemed so strong, yet there was a shadow in her eyes whenever John’s name came up. I admired their closeness, yet I promised myself: When love comes for me, I will not be silent. I will not let it slip away.

Back then, I didn’t know that life was preparing me—slowly, gently—for the tests ahead.

Because even the happiest days carry seeds of change.

When Life Was Still Simple (Part 3 – The First Change)

It was an ordinary Sunday when the first change came.

The day began with laughter as usual—my sister dragging me outside to help her with her school project, my brother teasing that I was her “personal assistant,” and Mother scolding us all for being too noisy.

But in the afternoon, Father called me to sit with him on the porch. He rarely asked for private talks, so I knew it was important.

“You’re growing up now,” he began, his eyes fixed on the garden instead of me. “One day, this house will not always be full of laughter. Your brother will have his own path, your sister will grow, and you… you too will find someone to walk beside you.”

I frowned. “But why are you saying this now? We’re happy, aren’t we?”

Father smiled faintly. “Yes, we are. That’s why I want you to remember it. Happiness is not something we can keep forever—it is something we must cherish while it’s here.”

I didn’t fully understand his words then. I only nodded, brushing them off as one of his wise sayings. But deep inside, a strange feeling lingered—like a small shadow creeping into the warmth of our home.

That evening, while we had dinner together, I looked at each of them—Mother’s tired but gentle smile, my brother’s playful eyes, my sister’s carefree laughter—and for the first time, I thought: What if this doesn’t last forever?

I pushed the thought away. At that moment, I didn’t want change. I wanted my little world to stay just as it was.

But life… life was already turning the pages of my story.

When Life Was Still Simple (Part 4 – The Day the Laughter Faded)

It happened on a Tuesday. A day that began like all others, with breakfast chatter and my father quietly sipping his tea while my brother complained about waking up early.

There was no warning. No sign.

Only a sudden sound—a gasp, a hand clutching his chest, his tea spilling across the table.

“Abah!” my brother shouted, leaping to his side. My mother screamed his name, panic filling her voice. My sister cried, too young to understand but old enough to feel the terror in the room.

Everything after that blurred. The rush to the hospital. The sterile white walls. The doctor’s heavy expression as he stepped out and shook his head.

“Heart attack,” he said softly. “I’m sorry… we couldn’t save him.”

The world collapsed in that moment. My mother broke down, my sister wailed, my brother stood frozen like a statue, fists clenched as though he could hold back reality by sheer force.

And me?

I stood there numb, my father’s words on the porch echoing in my mind:

“Happiness is not something we can keep forever—it is something we must cherish while it’s here.”

Now I finally understood.

The laughter in our home didn’t just fade—it was ripped away, leaving behind an emptiness we didn’t know how to fill. Dinner that night was silent. His chair at the table stood empty, yet his presence lingered everywhere—the smell of his shirts, the sound of his slippers by the door, the newspaper still folded where he had left it.

I realized then: life had turned a page.

And the story of my family would never be the same again.

(Part 5 – My Father, My First Loss)

Mother never knew. None of us did.

Father kept his sickness hidden, carrying the weight in silence while still smiling at us every morning. Perhaps he didn’t want us to worry. Perhaps he believed he had more time.

But death came without warning, stealing him from us in a single heartbeat.

For days after his funeral, I felt like I was moving in a dream. People came and went, neighbors offering food, relatives murmuring condolences, but their voices blurred like distant echoes. My eyes searched for him everywhere—his chair in the living room, his favorite mug, the slippers he always left near the door.

I couldn’t cry at first. Not properly. My brother wept in anger, punching the walls when no one watched. My little sister clung to Mother, asking again and again when Abah would come home. Mother… she stayed quiet, her strength terrifying and fragile all at once.

But me?

I carried the pain inside, heavy and suffocating. At night, when the house was silent, I pressed my face into my pillow and whispered, “Abah, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let us fight for more time with you?”

It was like Mira’s regret with John—watching him smile for someone else, knowing it was too late for her to confess. Only mine was deeper, sharper. Because this wasn’t just love unspoken—this was love lost forever.

I regretted not asking more questions. I regretted the times I thought he would always be there. I regretted every later I had whispered to myself, thinking I had years ahead to show him how much I loved him.

But later never came.

And in that grief, I understood something I never wanted to learn:

Life doesn’t wait. Love doesn’t wait. And silence—whether in love or in care—is the cruelest thief of all.

(Part 6 – Holding On For Her)

The first weeks after Father’s death were the hardest. The house felt empty, even when all of us were inside. His chair remained untouched. His clothes still hung in the wardrobe. Mother sometimes sat on the bed they once shared, staring at nothing, her hands clasped tightly as if holding on to invisible prayers.

I knew I could not let her sink into regret. She blamed herself silently—whispering late at night when she thought we were asleep:

“If only I had noticed… if only I had asked more… if only I had known.”

One evening, I sat beside her. The silence was heavy between us, but I reached for her hand.

“Mak… jangan salahkan diri. Abah never told anyone. He wanted us to remember him smiling, not sick.”

Her eyes glistened, tears threatening to fall. “But I was his wife… I should have known.”

I shook my head, my voice trembling. “Mak, if you stay in regret, who will we have left? We still need you. I still need you. Abang needs you. Adik needs you. You’re our strength now.”

She looked at me then, her lips quivering, and for the first time since Father’s passing, she let the tears fall openly. She cried, not in silence, but in my arms. And I cried with her—not as a child mourning, but as a daughter promising to carry the weight beside her.

Slowly, little by little, we began to heal.

My brother found ways to help more around the house, though his jokes were quieter now. My little sister clung to me, often asking, “Will Mak leave us too?” and I would hug her tightly, whispering, “No, never. We’ll always be together.”

And Mother… she started to smile again, faintly at first, then with more strength as days passed. Her smiles carried sorrow, but also love—the kind of love that refused to break even after loss.

I realized then that healing was not about forgetting. It was about holding each other up, refusing to let grief take more than it already had.

For my father, we carried on.

For my mother, we rose again.

Because love didn’t end with death—it lived on in us.

(Part 7 – Bringing Her With Me)

The days after Father’s passing were heavy, but I knew I couldn’t let Mother stay alone at home. Every corner of the house carried memories of him, and I could see how the silence pressed down on her shoulders.

One morning, as I prepared for work, I found her sitting quietly by the window. Her hands rested in her lap, her eyes staring out into the distance.

“Mak,” I said softly, “come with me today.”

She blinked, turning to me. “To your office? For what?”

“For me,” I admitted. “And for you too. I don’t want you sitting here all day, remembering and hurting. At least if you’re with me, I’ll know you’re not alone.”

At first she hesitated, but she agreed. That day, I walked into the office with her by my side. My colleagues were kind—greeting her warmly, offering her a chair, even making small talk to make her feel welcome. Mira, especially, gave me an understanding smile, as though she knew exactly why I brought my mother.

Mother sat quietly in the corner, knitting something she had brought along. But every now and then, I caught her watching me work, a faint smile tugging at her lips. For the first time since Father’s death, her face softened with a hint of pride.

During lunch, I sat with her at the small cafeteria. She looked around at the bustling office workers and said, almost wistfully,

“I didn’t know how much you carried every day. Your father would be proud of you.”

Her words nearly broke me, but I held her hand across the table.

“Mak, we’ll carry this together. You don’t have to be strong alone.”

From then on, I often brought her with me. Some days she helped the office ladies prepare snacks. Other days she simply sat near me, her presence a quiet comfort. Slowly, her sorrow seemed to ease—not vanish, but soften—like a wound that still hurt but no longer bled.

And for me, having her there reminded me of my promise:

to never let grief steal more than it already had.

(Part 7 – Mother’s New Path)

Not long after Father’s passing, a friend came to visit. She was one of Mother’s old neighbors, a woman with warm eyes and a firm voice.

Over tea, she gently said,

“Why don’t you come with me, kak? I’ve been taking jobs cleaning houses. It keeps me busy, and it pays a little. Maybe it will help you too.”

At first, I saw hesitation in Mother’s eyes. She was still fragile, her heart heavy with grief. But then she looked at me, at my little sister playing on the floor, at my brother who was quietly listening nearby.

And she nodded. “Maybe it’s time.”

The next morning, she left with her friend, carrying nothing more than a scarf tied around her head and a small bag with gloves and cloths. I worried, afraid it would be too much for her. But when she returned in the evening, there was something different in her eyes.

She was tired, yes—but also lighter.

“I met so many people today,” she said, her voice carrying a spark I hadn’t heard in weeks. “And I realized… I still have strength in me. Your father wouldn’t want me sitting at home, waiting for sorrow to swallow me.”

From then on, Mother began working with her friend regularly, cleaning houses one by one. Sometimes she returned with stories—about kind families who offered tea, about children who reminded her of us when we were young, about the feeling of wiping away dust as if she, too, was wiping away her sadness.

I saw how it healed her. Every coin she earned was not just money—it was proof that she could still stand, still move forward.

For me, it was a relief. I no longer saw her as a woman drowning in grief, but as my mother—the same strong woman who had always held us together.

And though the house felt emptier without Father, a new rhythm slowly returned.

Not the same as before.

But enough to keep us going.

(Part 8 – The Eyes That Followed Me)

Life at the office slowly returned to its rhythm. Mira still carried her quiet sadness about John’s marriage, though she hid it behind her work. John, as always, remained polite, professional, and admired by many.

Then there was him.

The new Chief Executive.

He was everything people talked about—confident, sharp, with a presence that filled the room the moment he entered. Colleagues whispered about his success, his charm, his influence. To many, he was untouchable.

But to me… he was simply another man in a suit.

I noticed it after a while—the way his eyes lingered on me during meetings, the way he always seemed aware of my presence, even in a crowded room. At first, I brushed it off. Surely he looked at everyone that way. Surely I was imagining things.

One afternoon, Mira leaned closer to me during a coffee break and whispered, “He’s always watching you, you know.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly.”

But when I glanced across the room, I found his gaze fixed on me again. Not cold, not arrogant—just steady, curious, almost searching.

I turned away quickly, pretending to be busy with my files.

I had no time for such distractions. My world was still about healing, about keeping my family strong. Love? That was Mira’s story, not mine.

And yet… every time I felt his eyes on me, a strange flutter stirred in my chest—one I tried hard to ignore.

(Part 9 – The Man I Refused to See)

It became impossible not to notice him.

Every meeting, every hallway, his gaze found me. Some women in the office whispered how lucky I was, how handsome he looked in his tailored suits, how powerful it must feel to have the Chief Executive’s attention.

But to me, it was unsettling.

The way his thin moustache framed his upper lip made his stares feel sharper, heavier. And in my mind, I was convinced no man in his position could be unattached. He must be married. Men like him always are.

So I resisted.

When he tried to start small talk at the coffee machine, I kept my replies short.

When he lingered after meetings, hoping to walk out together, I slipped away quickly with Mira or other colleagues.

And when his eyes searched for mine, I looked down, busying myself with files or my phone.

I could feel Mira watching me sometimes, amused.

“You don’t like attention, do you?” she teased softly one afternoon.

I shook my head. “Not from him. He looks… married. And I’m not comfortable with the way he stares.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe you’re misjudging. Maybe he just finds you interesting.”

“Or maybe he’s exactly the kind of man I should stay far away from,” I muttered.

Inside, my heart still carried the lessons of loss. I had no room for complicated feelings, especially not for a man who seemed unreachable, wrapped in power and mystery.

So I built walls. And behind those walls, I convinced myself: Better to ignore him now, than regret later.

But little did I know—this was only the beginning.

(Part 10 – Building Walls)

The more he looked at me, the more I turned away.

At meetings, when his voice filled the room with authority, I took notes without raising my eyes. When he spoke directly to me, I answered in short, clipped tones, careful not to give him more than what was necessary.

One afternoon, as the team prepared for a presentation, he stepped closer, standing behind me as I arranged the slides on the projector. His presence was strong, almost overwhelming.

“You’re very thorough,” he said, his voice calm, almost approving.

“Just doing my job,” I replied quickly, stepping aside before he could say more.

I saw the slight crease on his forehead as though my coldness puzzled him. But I didn’t care.

In my mind, I repeated the same thought: He’s a married man. That moustache, that confidence, that way he carries himself—it all screams taken. And I would not, could not, allow myself to fall into dangerous feelings.

Mira noticed, of course.

“Why do you keep avoiding him?” she asked one morning as we sipped coffee at our desks.

“Because I know men like him,” I answered firmly. “They look at you, they make you feel special, but at the end of the day, there’s a wife waiting at home. I won’t let myself be that foolish.”

She studied me quietly, as if she wanted to argue, but said nothing more.

So I kept resisting.

I dodged his attempts at conversation, I avoided being alone with him, and I pretended not to notice when his gaze lingered longer than it should.

Still… somewhere deep inside, a small, unwanted question began to whisper: What if I’m wrong about him?

But I silenced it, burying it under layers of doubt and fear.

Better to push him away now than risk another heartbreak later.

(Part 11 – Dodging in Funny Ways)

It soon became a game—though only I knew I was playing it.

Every time he tried to approach, I found a way to escape.

If I saw him walking down the hall, I suddenly became fascinated with the notice board.

If he entered the pantry, I “remembered” I left something urgent at my desk.

Once, he even held the elevator door for me, and I smiled politely before saying,

“Oh, I suddenly feel like taking the stairs.”

He looked baffled as the doors closed, while Mira nearly burst out laughing beside me.

“You’re unbelievable,” Mira whispered between giggles as we walked down the staircase. “Do you realize he probably thinks you hate him?”

“Better that than him thinking I like him,” I shot back, slightly out of breath.

The funniest moment came during a team lunch. He sat at the far end of the long table, but when he tried to pass me a dish, I quickly pretended to be busy pouring water for Mira. The dish went untouched until someone else leaned over to take it.

I thought I was clever—keeping my distance, building my walls. But Mira only shook her head with that mischievous smile.

“One day,” she teased, “you’re going to run out of excuses.”

I rolled my eyes, determined. “Not if I run fast enough.”

Still, I couldn’t ignore the puzzled look he sometimes gave me—half curious, half amused, as though he knew exactly what I was doing and was only waiting for me to slip.

And though I fought hard to resist him… I couldn’t deny that the game of dodging was starting to feel less like defense, and more like a secret dance neither of us had agreed to, but somehow kept playing.

(Part 12 – The Game We Pretended Not to Play)

It got ridiculous at times.

One morning, I spotted him heading toward the pantry just as I was about to go in. Without hesitation, I spun on my heel and marched back to my desk. Mira raised an eyebrow.

“Forgot your coffee already?” she teased.

“Yes,” I said firmly, holding my empty mug. “Suddenly, I’m not thirsty.”

Another day, he entered the lift just as I approached. He held the door, polite as ever. I froze, then blurted,

“Ah! Exercise is good for health,” and bolted to the stairwell.

When I reached the office, sweaty and out of breath, I found him already there, leaning casually against the wall. He gave me a faint smile.

“Good cardio?” he asked, his tone light but teasing.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Mira nearly choked trying to hold back her laughter.

Even at lunch, I couldn’t escape. During one team meal, he sat across from me, passing the plate of grilled chicken directly into my hands before I could duck.

“Eat,” he said simply, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

I muttered a thank you and focused on my rice, determined not to meet his gaze. But out of the corner of my eye, I caught his expression—half amused, half curious, like a man solving a puzzle.

Finally, one evening as I was gathering my things to leave, he stopped by my desk. His voice was calm, almost playful.

“You know… for someone who avoids me so much, you make it very obvious.”

I froze, my heart skipping. “I-I don’t avoid you.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, one brow lifting. “You just really, really like stairs.”

Mira snorted from behind me, covering her mouth with her notebook.

I didn’t reply. I just grabbed my bag, muttered a quick “Good night,” and hurried out before my face betrayed me.

But as I walked away, I felt something strange tugging at my chest. For the first time, I wondered if my resistance wasn’t just keeping him away—maybe it was pulling him closer.

(Part 13 – The Man Behind the Moustache)

What I didn’t know at the time was that the man I kept dodging carried a secret heavier than my assumptions.

He was not just the Chief Executive who signed papers and led meetings with steady authority. He was the son of the very man who owned the company.

Three brothers had their places in the family.

The eldest, serious and commanding, was being groomed to inherit the empire.

The youngest, carefree and ambitious, chased opportunities abroad, building his own name in faraway cities.

And him—the middle son.

He could have taken the easy path, introduced himself with pride, and demanded respect simply because of his surname. But instead, he refused the comfort of being known as “the boss’s son.”

“I want to earn it,” he had once told a trusted friend. “If I succeed, it should be because of my work, not my bloodline.”

So he chose the quiet disguise of an executive. Not too high to be untouchable, not too low to be dismissed. Just enough to test himself, to blend in, to work alongside others without flashing the weight of his family name.

That was why he observed me. Why he looked, and looked again.

Because perhaps, in me—the stubborn woman who refused his gaze, who ran from elevators, who treated him like any other man—he saw something different.

I didn’t bow to power, because I didn’t even know it was there.

And without realizing it, my resistance was the very thing that drew him closer.

(Part 14 – The Occasion That Changed Everything)

The company was buzzing with excitement. A new line of cosmetics had become the talk of the market—orders were flooding in, clients were demanding presentations, and the pressure to deliver was higher than ever.

To my surprise, my name was called.

“You’ll be in charge of coordinating this campaign,” my manager announced. “And you’ll be working closely with the Chief Executive to oversee execution.”

I froze, my pen hovering above my notebook. Chief Executive?

I didn’t need to ask who.

Mira, who was standing nearby, caught my wide-eyed look and smirked. Later, over coffee, she leaned closer.

“Don’t even try to push this to me,” she whispered. “I’m not giving him an excuse to run after you through me.”

“Mira—” I started.

“No,” she cut in, playful but firm. “You’ve been dodging long enough. Time you handle him yourself.”

So, like it or not, we became a team.

From early meetings to late-night calls with suppliers, his presence was constant. At first, I kept my guard up, speaking only when necessary, keeping my tone professional. But cosmetics was my passion—I poured energy into every detail, from packaging to marketing strategies.

And he noticed.

“You really know this product inside out,” he said during one discussion, studying me as though I was the only thing in the room.

“It’s my job,” I replied quickly, keeping my eyes on the files.

But inside, I felt a flicker of heat—because I couldn’t deny the truth. When we worked side by side, something shifted. The stares, the teasing, even the moustache that once annoyed me… began to feel less like an irritation, and more like an intrusion into the walls I had built.

Still, I resisted.

Because if I let my guard down, even for a second, I feared I would lose more than I could handle.

(Part 15 – Work, Walls, and Cracks in Between)

Working with him was like juggling fire.

Every time I tried to keep things strictly professional, something happened that made me falter.

Like the time we had to prepare samples for an important client. The boxes were heavy, and before I could stop him, he lifted two at once, carrying them with ease.

“You don’t have to—” I began.

He glanced back at me with a smirk. “What? You’d rather run up the stairs with these yourself?”

Mira, who had just passed by, nearly doubled over laughing. I shot her a glare, but she only mouthed, caught you.

Then there was the late-night preparation for the product launch. I sat at the conference table, surrounded by papers, adjusting schedules for delivery. He appeared with two cups of coffee, placing one in front of me.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said, frowning.

“You didn’t have to,” he replied simply, sitting down beside me.

I tried to ignore the warmth of the gesture, sipping the coffee with forced nonchalance.

But when I glanced at him, I caught a rare expression on his face—soft, thoughtful, nothing like the confident executive everyone saw in the office.

And that unsettled me more than anything.

Of course, my resistance didn’t stop.

When he suggested, “We can carpool to tomorrow’s client meeting, it’ll save time,” I shook my head.

“No thanks, I like my independence.”

When he lingered after our work was done, clearly wanting to talk, I packed my things quickly.

“Good night,” I muttered, rushing out before he could say more.

But little cracks had begun to form in my wall. His kindness, his patience, even his quiet humor—they slipped through when I least expected it.

And though I kept dodging, I couldn’t deny that working beside him made my heart race in ways I didn’t understand.

(Part 16 – The Accident at the Launch)

The day of the cosmetics launch arrived like a storm—bright lights, banners, clients, and cameras flashing everywhere. I was running around, clipboard in hand, making sure every little detail went smoothly.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

As I hurried backstage with a tray of samples, my heel caught on the edge of a carpet. Before I knew it, I stumbled forward—the tray wobbling dangerously.

“Ah—!”

In that instant, a strong arm caught me from the side. The tray clattered onto a table, samples rolling but miraculously not falling. And there I was, awkwardly half-leaning against him, his hand firm around my arm.

The world seemed to freeze.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low but filled with concern.

I pulled back quickly, my cheeks burning. “I’m fine. It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” he raised an eyebrow. “You nearly turned our best-seller into floor polish.”

I tried to glare, but the corners of his mouth twitched as though he was fighting a smile. Mira, of course, was nearby and whispered loudly enough for me to hear,

“Somebody finally caught you—and not just in the elevator.”

I shot her a look that could kill, while he chuckled softly.

Later, as I checked the displays again, he came to stand beside me.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” he said quietly. “Sometimes… it’s okay to let someone catch you.”

I didn’t answer, pretending to focus on the products. But his words lingered, echoing louder than the crowd outside.

For the first time, my walls didn’t feel so strong.

(Part 17 – The Queen of Excuses)

After the launch incident, you’d think I might soften a little.

Wrong.

If anything, I doubled my resistance—only now, it came out in ridiculous ways.

One morning, he walked into the office carrying two cups of coffee. Without thinking, he set one on my desk.

I blinked at it, then looked at him.

“I don’t drink coffee before 10 a.m.,” I lied smoothly.

Mira coughed loudly. “Since when?” she muttered.

“Since today,” I shot back, pushing the cup toward her.

Another time, he asked if I’d like a ride home after a long evening meeting.

“Sorry, I promised my mom I’d… water the plants,” I said, holding my bag tightly.

He tilted his head. “You live in an apartment.”

“…Balcony plants,” I corrected quickly, before rushing off.

Even in meetings, I found ways to avoid him. When he sat at one end of the table, I “just happened” to sit at the other. Once, when he came over to check my notes, I sneezed—loudly.

“Oh no, I might be coming down with something,” I said, sliding my papers away.

He just stared at me, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Right. A very… convenient sneeze.”

Mira nearly fell off her chair laughing.

It became a running joke in the office. My excuses were legendary—everything from “urgent nail trimming” to “I forgot my fish tank light is on.”

But no matter how far I ran, he never seemed annoyed. If anything, the twinkle in his eyes grew brighter, as though he enjoyed the chase.

And slowly, though I would never admit it, even I began to wonder… how long could I keep up this comedy act before he finally cornered me?

(Part 18 – Cracks in the Wall)

It happened on a rainy evening.

The cosmetics campaign had wrapped up successfully, and while everyone else celebrated, I stayed behind in the office, sorting through leftover reports.

The rain outside poured heavily against the glass windows, and I sighed, realizing I had forgotten my umbrella. Typical.

As I debated whether to make a run for it, a shadow fell across my desk. He stood there, holding an umbrella in one hand and a quiet smile on his lips.

“You’re not planning to sprint through that storm, are you?”

I crossed my arms. “I… like the rain.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You also ‘like’ stairs and balcony plants, right?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped me. There was no teasing smirk this time, no playful glint in his eyes. Just calm sincerity.

“You don’t always have to run away,” he said softly. “I’m not here to make things complicated for you. I just… want to be someone you don’t have to resist.”

For once, I had no excuse ready.

No funny escape, no quick words to deflect.

I stared at him, my heart pounding, realizing how dangerous sincerity could feel. Because unlike his teasing, sincerity slipped past my walls, seeping into the very place I had been guarding all this time.

Slowly, I took the umbrella from his hand. Our fingers brushed, and it sent a quiet shiver through me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His smile returned, softer than before, almost as though he knew—this was the first crack in the wall I had built so carefully.

And somehow, I didn’t hate it.

(Part 19 – Little Cracks, Quiet Openings)

After the night of the umbrella, things felt different.

I still tried to keep my distance, but somehow, his presence slipped into my days in small, undeniable ways.

Like the time I came into the office looking pale after a night of little sleep. Without a word, he placed a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits on my desk. No teasing, no remarks—just a quiet gesture that made my throat tighten.

Or the day I rushed out for lunch and returned to find my desk neatly stacked, papers I had left scattered now organized. He didn’t say anything, but I caught him glancing at me later, as if waiting for me to notice.

Even Mira began to notice the change.

“You’re not running as fast as before,” she teased, nudging me during one meeting.

I rolled my eyes, pretending to scribble notes. “I’m just… pacing myself.”

But the truth was harder to deny.

Every smile he gave me, every patient word, every unexpected kindness—it all chipped away at the walls I had built.

And then, there was the day I forgot my jacket. The office air conditioning was unusually cold, and I hugged myself as I typed. A moment later, something warm settled over my shoulders. His blazer.

I froze.

“You’ll catch a chill,” he said simply, before walking back to his desk.

I wanted to shrug it off, to return it immediately. But instead, I sat there, wrapped in the faint scent of his cologne, feeling both safe and dangerously exposed at the same time.

For the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t resisting him anymore.

Maybe I was resisting myself.

(Part 20 – A Quiet Break)

Just when the cracks in my walls were beginning to widen, he was suddenly gone.

A week abroad, for meetings, they said.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

He was just my boss, my colleague. And yet… the office felt strangely quieter without his gaze following me, without his small gestures filling the spaces I didn’t know were empty.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. But every time my eyes wandered to his desk and found it vacant, an uneasy feeling tugged at me. Was this loneliness? Or was it just aloneness—a hollow I had been carrying long before he came near?

To escape the restlessness, I went home early that week. I found comfort in the familiar.

Dinner with my brother, who cracked jokes even when I wasn’t in the mood.

Shopping trips with my little sister, who begged me to try silly clothes and laughed until her stomach hurt.

Even quiet walks with Mom, hand in hand, listening to her stories of the houses she cleaned with her friends.

One Sunday, we packed simple food and went out for a family outing—just us, sitting under the shade of trees, laughing, teasing, remembering Dad.

And in that warmth, I realized something.

No matter what happened with him, no matter how my heart trembled when he was near or ached when he was away—this was my anchor.

My family, my roots, the love that had held me together through loss.

But even then, as I laughed with them, a small, unwelcome thought slipped in:

Would he come back next week with the same smile? Would I still feel this ache if he didn’t?

And that was when I knew—something inside me had already changed.

(Part 21 – The Woman Beside Him)

He returned the following week.

I told myself it was just another day at the office, but when I saw him step into the lobby, something in me relaxed—like an invisible weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying had lifted.

But he wasn’t alone.

Walking beside him was a woman. Elegant, confident, the kind of presence that turned heads without trying. They laughed easily together as they entered the office, and my chest tightened with a strange, unfamiliar ache.

During the morning briefing, he introduced her.

“This is Claire,” he said, his hand gesturing toward her with familiarity. “She’ll be in charge of handling occasions and major events going forward. She’s also… an old friend.”

Claire smiled warmly at everyone, and the room welcomed her with polite applause. But my ears caught on his last words: an old friend.

Something twisted inside me.

I tried to brush it off. Of course he would have friends—especially someone like her. Maybe this was why he had always seemed untouchable, why I had resisted him from the start.

Still, every time I saw them talking closely, leaning toward each other with the ease of long companionship, I felt it—that pinch, sharp and uncomfortable.

Mira noticed, of course.

“You’re frowning,” she whispered once, nudging me.

“I’m not,” I replied quickly, straightening my face.

Inside, though, I whispered to myself:

This is exactly why I never let myself fall. If I had, it would hurt more now.

So I smiled, acted as though it didn’t matter, and told myself to be grateful. Grateful that I had built walls, grateful that I hadn’t fallen too early.

But even then, a quiet voice in my heart asked:

Then why does it still sting?