The office was never truly silent — not even after midnight.
The hum of the air conditioning, the faint buzz from the vending machine down the hall, the city lights bleeding through the glass — it all created a kind of soft, persistent noise. A quiet that wasn't empty, just heavy. Full of things unsaid.
I wasn't supposed to be there that late. No one was. But old habits died hard, and work had always been my easiest escape. Numbers, reports, schedules — they didn't demand honesty. They didn't look back at you and ask questions you didn't want to answer.
I was halfway through adjusting a client proposal when I noticed the faint light still burning at the far end of the floor.
One cubicle lamp, warm and dim against the sterile glow of the emergency lights.
And there she was.
Head bowed over a stack of notes, pen dangling loosely in her fingers, her hair falling like a curtain across her face. The screen in front of her had long gone idle — soft, fading light washing over her as she drifted somewhere between exhaustion and surrender.
I hesitated.
She shouldn't have been there that late. No intern should. But something about the way she sat — quiet, shoulders curved inward, almost defenseless — made it hard to just turn away.
So I didn't.
I set my tablet down and walked toward her, my steps quiet against the polished floor. The closer I got, the softer everything became — the tension in my chest, the buzz of the lights, the ache behind my eyes. Like the world itself had decided to hold its breath.
She'd fallen asleep.
Her cheek rested lightly on her arm, a faint crease marking her skin where the edge of a notebook pressed against it. Her breathing was steady, deep. Peaceful in a way that felt almost foreign in this place.
The kind of peace I hadn't felt in years.
I crouched down beside her desk, careful not to wake her. The papers spread before her were filled with rough drafts — ideas scribbled in pencil, half-crossed-out sentences, little arrows pointing between words like she was trying to map out thoughts too alive to stay still.
I skimmed one line.
"People rarely notice the quiet ones, until silence becomes the loudest thing in the room."
I froze.
It wasn't part of her work. It wasn't a note from a meeting or a draft headline. It was… writing. Her writing.
And it was good. Raw, honest — the kind of line that hit you in a place you didn't know was still tender.
I shouldn't have read more.
But I did.
Another line. Then another.
"I think everyone hides something. Some people hide behind words. Some behind smiles. Some behind work that keeps them from looking too closely at themselves."
It was like she'd carved the thoughts straight out of my skull.
I let out a quiet breath, one that trembled just slightly.
The city lights flickered faintly against the glass, catching in her hair — strands of dark brown that gleamed almost gold under the lamp. Her hand twitched slightly, like her dream had caught on something. Without thinking, I reached out, steadying the edge of her notebook before it slipped off the desk.
My fingers brushed hers.
Just barely — the lightest contact — but it was enough.
Enough to send a pulse through me so sudden, I almost pulled back as though burned. It wasn't just the touch. It was the quiet trust of it. The way her body didn't flinch. The way she simply existed there — open, unguarded — in a world that always demanded armor.
I stood up quickly, trying to steady myself. Tried to convince my brain to treat this as what it was — an exhausted intern falling asleep over her work. Nothing more.
But I knew that was a lie.
I'd spent months trying to stay on the right side of that invisible line — the one that separated professional concern from something else.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
And every time she smiled, or frowned, or looked at me like she was trying to read the spaces between my words, that line blurred a little more.
I turned off her monitor, careful not to disturb her. The light from her desk lamp softened her face, and for a moment, I just… watched.
Not in the way people stare.
In the way you study something fragile — afraid that the wrong kind of attention might break it.
She stirred slightly, murmured something I couldn't catch. I took off my jacket and laid it gently over her shoulders.
Her fingers brushed the fabric instinctively, pulling it closer.
"Go home," I whispered under my breath. "Before this place takes too much from you."
I didn't expect her to hear. She didn't.
I lingered one second too long before turning away.
By the time I made it to the elevator, the weight of the night had settled in — heavy, strange, almost disorienting. I pressed the button and waited, staring at my reflection in the mirrored doors.
It was almost laughable — the calm, measured man staring back at me. The one with the perfect tie and the carefully unreadable face. The man who never said too much. Never let anyone close enough to notice the cracks.
But she had noticed.
Not in any obvious way — not through confrontation or curiosity — but in the subtle, unnerving way she saw.
She had this quiet habit of catching things others missed — the flicker of hesitation before I spoke, the way I lingered at the edge of a conversation, the way I sometimes forgot to breathe when she laughed.
It terrified me.
Because I'd spent years building walls so high that even I couldn't see over them.
And she — without meaning to — had started to find the doors.
The elevator chimed softly.
The night air outside hit colder than I expected — crisp, edged with the faint scent of rain. I loosened my tie, slipping my hands into my pockets as I stepped out onto the street.
The city was still alive.
Cars murmured past, lights blinked across high windows, music drifted faintly from a bar down the block. Life went on, as if the rest of the world hadn't stopped inside that quiet, lamplit corner where she slept.
I walked without direction.
Just the sound of my shoes against the wet pavement, the echo of her handwriting still looping through my thoughts.
"Some people hide behind work that keeps them from looking too closely at themselves."
I almost laughed.
She didn't know how close to the truth she'd come.
By the time I reached the end of the street, the rain had started — soft, hesitant, like the sky couldn't quite decide whether to let go.
I stopped under an awning, tilting my head up to watch the drops scatter against the neon reflections. There was a strange comfort in it — the noise, the smell, the reminder that the world could still wash itself clean.
But still the question lingered — What if it couldn't?.