Rumors never started loudly.
They slipped in quietly, disguised as jokes, half-sentences, and glances that lingered a second too long.
I noticed it first in the elevator.
Two coworkers stepped in behind me, their conversation trailing off the moment the doors closed. One of them checked their phone too deliberately. The other stared at the floor.
When I stepped out, I heard my name.
Then silence.
By noon, it was impossible not to feel it.
People watched more carefully when I passed her office. Conversations paused when she entered a room. Nothing obvious—nothing that could be confronted—but enough to tighten the air.
During the afternoon briefing, she stood at the head of the table, composed as ever.
"Our priorities remain unchanged," she said. "Deadlines are firm. Expectations are clear."
Her gaze moved across the room, steady and impartial.
When it reached me, it didn't linger.
That somehow felt worse.
After the meeting, I headed back to my desk. Someone leaned over the partition.
"Hey," a colleague said lightly. "You've been getting a lot of face time lately."
I kept my tone even. "I'm assigned to her projects."
"Lucky," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "She doesn't usually take interest."
I didn't respond.
Interest wasn't the word I'd use.
Later that day, she sent a message.
Ms. Sheldon:Come by my office at five.
No explanation.
At five sharp, I knocked.
"Come in."
She was standing, jacket already on, phone in hand. She gestured for me to close the door.
"You've noticed the shift," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
She nodded once. "So have I."
She crossed her arms, posture firm. Defensive—not afraid, but prepared.
"This is exactly what I wanted to avoid," she continued. "Speculation."
"I haven't said anything," I replied.
"I know," she said immediately. "This isn't about words. It's about perception."
She paced once, then stopped.
"You're doing well here," she said. "People notice success. They attach narratives to it."
"I don't want special treatment," I said.
Her eyes softened briefly. "That's clear."
The pause that followed was heavier than the room itself.
"For now," she said, "we need distance."
I nodded. "Understood."
"Different project leads," she added. "Fewer one-on-one meetings. It's temporary."
Temporary.
The word landed harder than I expected.
"I'll make the changes," she said. "It's cleaner this way."
Cleaner.
Professional.
Necessary.
I stood. "If this protects your position, I'm fine with it."
She looked at me sharply then.
"My position isn't fragile," she said.
"I know," I replied. "But mine might be."
That stopped her.
For a moment, she looked at me not as a subordinate, not as a rumor—but as someone who had something to lose.
"I won't let that happen," she said quietly.
I believed her.
When I left her office, the hallway felt longer than before.
The distance had started.
Not because of what we did.
But because of what people thought they saw.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than the truth.