I stare at my computer screen. And stare. And stare.
Nothing makes sense. Numbers blur into one another like watercolor on a rainy day. Reports, spreadsheets, emails—they're all the same: lines, columns, endless lines of columns, figures dancing in front of my eyes mocking me.
"Lè… are you okay?" Xuè leans over my cubicle wall, eyebrows raised, holding his coffee like a peace offering.
I force a smile. "Fine… totally fine," I lie, tapping at the keyboard in a rhythm that matches my impatience more than my productivity.
Truth? I'm bored out of my mind. Every tick of the clock drags like molasses. Each minute stretches into an eternity. My eyes betray me, flickering shut for a second before snapping open again.
The office is unusually quiet today. Sir Chén Se is buried in his paperwork, murmuring to himself in a way that makes everyone pretend not to notice. No Ye Chan. No reminders. No punishments hovering like a storm cloud. The freedom feels wrong, almost dangerous.
I slump in my chair, resting my chin on my palm. My mind wanders.
Ye Chan.
What is he doing right now? Is he in bed, pale and weak, or pacing in his study, counting the seconds until someone dares disturb him? I can't stop thinking about it. Every fiber of me is tuned to that one thought: the second office hours end, I have to go to his house, find out what's really going on, and—maybe—I'll get answers.
But until then… I'm trapped in this cubicle purgatory.
I glance at the clock. 9:15 AM.
I stretch my arms above my head, the joints cracking loudly. A colleague—probably hoping I'll look productive—throws me a curious glance. I wave back weakly, trying to appear engaged.
My thoughts rebel. I don't want to be here, staring at numbers that don't matter, while the real puzzle sits somewhere behind closed doors with Ye Chan.
I try to focus. Really, I do.
A budget report blinks on my screen. I squint, trying to convince myself I can read it. Lines, numbers, percentages. Then suddenly, a yawning fit overtakes me. I clamp my mouth shut, hoping no one notices. My head tilts back against the chair, eyes half-lidded.
This is cruel. Torture. Punishment without reason.
I glance at Xuè again. He's quietly typing, glasses slightly slipping down his nose, oblivious to the slow death of my willpower.
I mutter under my breath, "How are people even productive in this environment? How is anyone sane?"
He glances up, a small smile teasing him. "Maybe your mind is… somewhere else?"
I nearly choke on my sigh. "Somewhere else? Oh, you have no idea. You literally have no idea."
The second hand on the clock jerks forward. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each movement taunts me. I imagine Ye Chan, lounging in some perfectly decorated study room, reading or pacing, probably unaware that his poor assistant is suffering.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. My eyelids droop again, and I fight to stay upright. Every spreadsheet is a mountain. Every formula is a labyrinth. My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. Boredom is deadly.
I try to remember the last time I felt engaged at work. The last actual, meaningful task… but my memory falters. It was probably the first week, when everything was new, exciting, and terrifying. Now… it's all mundane, mechanical, pointless.
I glance at the clock again. 10:00 AM.
Two more hours until I can leave. Two more hours until I can see Ye Chan, until I can finally understand the chaos behind the walls of his house. My stomach twists, half anticipation, half anxiety.
I fidget, tapping my fingers on the desk. I glance at the ceiling, imagining that maybe if I look high enough, the world will shift and suddenly teleport me to his side. No luck. Just florescent lights and hum of air-conditioning.
"Lè, coffee?" Xuè offers again, this time more insistently.
I shake my head. "No… I don't need coffee. I need… time to end faster." My voice sounds desperate, even to me.
He tilts his head. "You really want to go somewhere?"
I freeze. My secret is too obvious. I sigh, leaning forward onto my desk. "Yes… I have to check on someone."
Xuè raises an eyebrow, doesn't push, just shrugs, then goes back to his work. Some things even friends can't pry without risking disaster.
Minutes crawl. My eyes wander over emails, over the neatly stacked documents on my desk, but I barely register them. Every sound in the office—the soft tapping of keyboards, the faint hum of the printer, the quiet shuffle of papers—is a countdown to freedom.
I close my eyes for a second, imagining stepping out of the office building, sunlight hitting my face, feeling the cool breeze on my skin. Then, the thought of Ye Chan—his sharp eyes, his cold smile, his mysterious illness—pulls me back into the burning impatience inside me.
Every second here feels like a mockery. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I glance at the clock again. 11:15 AM. Less than an hour until the end of office hours.
My fingers twitch. My heart beats faster. My mind spins with possibilities. What if he's fine? What if it's worse than I imagined? What if…?
I shake my head violently. Stop thinking. Focus. Endure. Survive.
I slump further into my chair, resigned to the waiting game. My eyes keep darting to the clock, my mind racing with plans, with questions, with anticipation. One thing is certain: when the office hours end, nothing else will matter until I reach his house and discover the truth myself.
Until then… I wait. Impatient. Restless. A captive of time itself.
The long wait drags on, every second an eternity. And in that quiet office, while the world goes on around me, one thought dominates:
Ye Chan. I have to see him. I have to know.