Seven months.
That's how long she'd been here — and somehow, it still felt like the first day every time I saw her walk through the glass doors.
I told myself it was coincidence. That I hadn't recognized her that night at the subway when she looked up at me with those same eyes, the same quiet fire behind the exhaustion.
But I had.
Of course, I had.
And yet I couldn't let her know.
Not here. Not now.
I watched her learn the rhythm of this place faster than anyone I'd ever seen.
At first, she was cautious — polite, careful, never speaking more than necessary. But over time, she started to move with a kind of quiet confidence, the kind that didn't announce itself but made everyone else take notice.
Even the senior editors had begun to ask her opinion on drafts. That was rare.
She didn't realize how much she had changed the atmosphere around her.
And I couldn't tell her.
Because the truth would make everything too complicated — for her, for me, for the name I carried.
Some nights, I stayed later than I needed to.
Sometimes it was work.
Sometimes it wasn't.
She'd be sitting at her desk, focused, tapping her pen against her notes like it helped her think. The way her brow furrowed when she was lost in a manuscript — I could have watched that for hours.
But I didn't.
Instead, I'd walk by her desk and say something neutral. Professional.
Then go back to my office and remind myself who I was supposed to be.
The one who didn't get distracted.
The one who didn't let personal feelings rewrite everything he'd worked for.
When she smiled at me — that soft, uncertain curve of her lips that she probably didn't even notice she had — it did something to me that I didn't have words for.
I tried not to think about the girl in the subway. The one who scribbled stories with worn-out pens and half-broken earphones. The one who had looked at me not with admiration or fear, but with complete honesty.
She was the first person in years who hadn't known my last name.
Who hadn't cared about it.
And that night, when I handed her that money — when I told her her stories were worth something — it wasn't out of pity. It was recognition.
She had something rare.
Something real.
And seeing her again, in my world, under my roof, was both a miracle and a punishment.
The whispers had started a few weeks back.
I'd walked past the interns' floor once, late in the afternoon, and caught fragments.
"…Mr. Blake was in the city last night…"
"…no, that's not possible, he was in the meeting this morning…"
"…I swear they looked the same…"
I didn't stop walking.
Rumors never lasted long in this building, but I hated that they started at all.
It wasn't about her — not yet — but if they ever connected the pieces, if she ever heard too much too soon…
I couldn't let that happen.
One evening, I caught her in my office again, files in her arms, trying to balance too many things at once.
"You're still here," I said.
She froze, then gave me that polite little smile. "You could say the same."
She had no idea what that did to me.
If I let my guard slip for even a second, she'd see too much.
I tried to sound casual. "You're working too hard."
"So are you."
Her answer made me laugh before I could stop myself.
That sound — God, it felt foreign. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed without calculating it.
When she smiled back, it almost felt like we were still in that subway station — just two people who didn't owe each other explanations.
Almost.
Then reality caught up.
I was Adrian Blake.
One of the Blakes.
And she was my intern.
Sometimes, when I looked at her, I wondered if she remembered me.
If some part of her recognized the voice, the eyes, the night.
But if she did, she hid it well.
And maybe that was for the best.
Because the more time passed, the more dangerous the truth became.
That Friday morning, I saw her again — tired, but still standing taller than when she first started.
She didn't see me watching her, not at first.
Her desk was a chaos of notes, drafts, and open tabs. But when she worked, it was like the noise quieted around her.
Focused. Determined.
Different.
She was different.
I couldn't name what it was — strength, hope, maybe something she didn't even see in herself.
All I knew was that if I wasn't careful, I'd cross a line I'd spent my entire life drawing.
And there were already too many lies between us.
That night, I stayed long after everyone else left.
The office lights hummed low. Her desk was empty, her mug still half-full of cold tea.
I should have gone home.
Instead, I sat at my desk, the city bleeding silver light through the window, and opened one of the manuscripts she'd been working on.
Her notes were everywhere — small, neat handwriting, careful but sure.
She saw stories the way I used to. Not as products, but as living things.
And reading her words, I realized something I didn't want to admit:
It wasn't just admiration anymore.
It was something far more dangerous.
Something that felt like remembering.
When I finally turned off the lights and walked to the elevator, I passed her floor.
Her chair was empty, but I could still feel her there — that quiet energy she carried with her, the reminder of a life I wasn't supposed to touch.
For a long moment, I stood there, the hum of the building the only sound.
And I thought, not for the first time, how much simpler everything would be if I'd never stopped that night in the subway.
If I'd never turned around when she dropped her pen.
If I'd never said, I'll buy your stories.
But I did.
And nothing — not her silence, not my name, not the walls I built — could undo that.
Because somewhere between who we were then and who we'd become now, everything changed.
Everything felt—
Different.