The office smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink — banal, ordinary, unrelenting. But to Zarah, every sound, every flicker of light, felt magnified. Her laptop sat open in front of her, emails stacked like a wall she couldn't climb. She tried to type, but her fingers hesitated, hovering over keys as if they might betray her fatigue, her panic, her exhaustion.
The screen blurred. She blinked. Deleted a half-written sentence. Started again. Deleted it.
Her chest felt tight — a constant pressure that refused to let her breathe normally. She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to massage away the headache that had settled there overnight.
A soft cough at the doorway made her jump.
"Zee…"
She didn't look up. Liam stepped in, coffee cup in hand, careful, cautious.
"You okay?" he asked, voice gentle, but it was the first time someone had really asked in hours.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice cracked. "Just… tired."
He didn't argue. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her, saying nothing — the kind of patience she didn't realize she needed.
And then — it started.
A coworker, one of the junior analysts, peeked in. "Hey, Zarah, do you have those numbers? Or… are you, um… okay?" Their voice was a mixture of curiosity and pity, the kind that made Zarah want to vanish.
She forced a small, brittle smile. "I'll get to it," she said, fingers gripping the edge of her desk so hard her knuckles turned white.
Liam stepped slightly forward, placing himself subtly between her and the coworker. "She'll handle it. Give her a minute."
The coworker left with a polite nod, muttering under their breath, and Zarah sank further into her chair, letting her head rest in her hands.
Her phone vibrated. She knew without looking: Alex. But she couldn't. Not yet. Not here.
Minutes stretched. Hours felt like they condensed into moments. Every time she tried to focus, her mind wandered back to her father, hooked to machines, fragile yet fighting. She could still hear the rhythmic beeps of the ICU monitors in her memory.
Then Liam leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You don't have to pretend here."
Zarah shook her head, trying to smile, but it faltered. "I can't… I have to—"
Her words were cut off by a sudden buzz — her phone, right on the edge of her desk. She froze, heart thudding, and glanced down: Alex's name flashing.
She felt a pang of panic. He'd stay outside, she thought. He wouldn't intrude here. But somehow, she knew he would notice if she didn't answer.
She ignored it.
The next distraction came from another angle: her manager, an older woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tone. "Zarah, the presentation's due this afternoon. I need your numbers. Now."
Zarah's hands trembled as she tried to type. The numbers didn't make sense. Her mind refused to focus.
Then, a knock — more deliberate this time — and Alex stepped into the doorway. Not pushing, not barging, just being there.
She felt her stomach flip. "Alex… I—"
He raised a hand, soft, patient. "I'm not here to interfere. I just… wanted to make sure you're okay."
Her lips quivered. She wanted to explain, to apologize, to confess all the fear and panic she'd bottled up since yesterday. Instead, she just nodded, swallowed, and returned her attention to the spreadsheet that looked like a battlefield.
He didn't leave. He just leaned against the frame, presence steady, grounding.
"Zee," he said quietly, "you don't have to carry all of this alone."
She blinked rapidly, forcing her focus back to the screen. "I… I do."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You don't."
Her fingers froze on the keyboard. The air between them seemed to hum — quiet, tense, impossible to ignore. Her chest tightened further, and she realized she hadn't noticed the shallow breathing, the racing heartbeat, the small tremors that refused to settle.
The day dragged on. Calls, emails, clients, deadlines — everything pressing and urgent. But Alex stayed, subtle, protective, giving her space while making sure she didn't break entirely.
At one point, she crumpled a piece of paper in frustration, shoulders shaking. He handed her a glass of water without a word, just a small gesture that felt like a lifeline.
By lunch, Zarah's mental armor had cracked. She left her desk, headed to the empty break room, and leaned against the counter, shoving her face into her hands.
"I can't do this," she whispered to no one, and then immediately realized someone was there.
Alex. Of course he was.
"You can do this," he said softly. "But you don't have to pretend to do it alone. Not today."
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I… I feel like everything's crashing."
He didn't try to fix it. He just let her feel it. The quiet presence, the steady breathing, the reassurance without pressure — it grounded her more than any words could.
And there, in the fluorescent lights of the break room, Zarah realized something terrifying: she needed him. Not as a boss, not professionally, not logically — she needed him because he made the chaos manageable, because he reminded her she wasn't drowning alone.
Her chest ached with guilt and longing, all tangled together. And somewhere beneath that, the undeniable truth settled: she liked him. More than she should.
And that… was a problem she wasn't ready to face.
later that day she had to host a meeting
The meeting room door clicked open, and the Marshall team filed in, papers in hand, ready to resume where they'd left off. Their faces were polite, professional—but Zarah saw the faint flicker of curiosity, judgment, and concern.
She tried to straighten her shoulders, open her laptop, and force her fingers to type.
"Zarah?" one of the team leaders said softly. "Are you ready?"
She nodded, voice barely audible. "Y-Yes. I… I'll start."
Her laptop screen glared back at her like an enemy. The numbers, the charts, the words—they were all there, but her mind felt empty, scattered. She clicked through slides, but her voice shook. Her hands trembled as she pointed at the graphs. Words tangled, sentences faltered, explanations fractured.
A whisper of panic swelled in her chest, threatening to consume her. Her hands shook violently over the laptop, the cursor blinking back at her accusingly. The room spun slightly, and for a terrifying second she felt her knees give way.
One of the Marshall team members leaned forward, concern etched on their face. "Zarah… are you feeling sick? Should we—"
Another team member murmured, "Do you need to step outside for a moment?"
Her vision blurred. Words stuck in her throat. She wanted to speak, to say she was fine, but her body refused. The panic had built into a physical wave she could not suppress.
Then Alex appeared at the door, calm but firm. "Zarah, come with me. It's okay."
Her chest heaved, and she let him guide her out, hand in his, the dizziness pulling her forward, grounding her in the only solid presence she could rely on.
Her mouth opened, ready to protest, but her throat closed. She could barely speak. He took her hand firmly but gently, and she realized her body was too exhausted to resist.
The room stiffened. The Marshall people froze, mid-sentence. Whispers fluttered through the team:
"Is she okay?"
"She's… she doesn't look well."
"Maybe we should postpone?"
Zarah felt her face burn as she was guided out of the room. The office hallway seemed impossibly long. Colleagues passed by, eyes flicking up, mouths forming half-questions and murmurs:
"What's happening?"
"She's crying… poor thing."
"Alex is helping her… oh, wow."
Her body shook, her breathing shallow and uneven. Alex didn't say a word, only kept her hand in his, grounding her, steadying her.
They reached an empty corner of the office near a row of windows. Zarah finally let go. The tears that had been clawing at her chest all day spilled freely, hot and unrelenting. She buried her face into his shoulder, trembling violently.
Alex held her without question, without speaking, letting her cry. He rubbed gentle circles on her back, whispered her name now and then, and simply was. His presence gave her the permission to break, to release all the fear, the guilt, the exhaustion she'd been holding in.
"I'm… I'm sorry," she choked between sobs. "I… I can't… I can't do anything today. I'm… I'm useless."
"You're not useless," he murmured. "Not today, not ever. You've been holding everything inside and trying to carry the world alone. It's okay to fall apart."
"I… I just…" she sobbed harder, words tangled with tears. "It's all… everything… the hospital, my dad, the payments, the ICU, everyone watching, everyone expecting me to be strong…"
"Shhh," Alex whispered. "I know, I know. It's too much. That's why I'm here. You don't have to be strong right now."
She clung to him like he was the only solid thing in her world. Her legs weakened, her head buried against his chest, and for the first time that day, she felt a tiny spark of safety, of relief.
The Marshall team had resumed their meeting without her. The office buzzed faintly around them, but here, in this quiet corner, the chaos didn't exist. Only the steady beat of Alex's heart, the warmth of his shoulder, the sound of his voice murmuring her name.
She let herself cry. Really cry.
And as the minutes stretched into eternity, Zarah realized something terrifying: for the first time in days, she wasn't alone.
Not completely.