I froze. The word "Sure" echoed in the vacuum of the surrounding silence, a tiny, devastating sound. My throat went dry, a rasping canyon, and the desperate, frantic words I wanted to scream, I didn't mean it! It was a mistake!—tangled into nothing. My brain had locked up, overwhelmed by the sheer, terrifying reality of the impossible wish being granted. Without another glance at Anna, whose expression I didn't dare interpret, I stumbled back to my desk, my legs moving with the jerky, disconnected movements of a marionette.
The office hum was suddenly deafening. The AC unit rattled and hissed above me, blowing cold air across the office, but sweat still ran down my temple, a thick, icy trail. My body betrayed me, every nerve alive with an electric mix of panic, shame, and a forbidden, terrifying excitement. My hands shook so violently as I reached for the files that the papers rustled like dry leaves. I forced myself to stare at the screen, but the numbers swam into a useless, chaotic mess; the spreadsheets had become irrelevant.
"Luke."
I almost jumped out of my skin again, my muscles twitching involuntarily, but it was only Mark, rolling his chair over with that smug grin he always wore. He studied me with raised brows, his curiosity thinly veiled by his usual condescension.
"What's wrong with you? Did you run into the boss? Looks like you just saw a ghost."
I forced a brittle smirk, though my lips trembled and the muscles in my jaw ached. "Have you seen your face when you try to act cool, Mark? It's terrifying."
Mark frowned, momentarily distracted. "What's wrong with my face?" He pulled out his phone, tilting it to catch his reflection like a peacock checking its feathers, preening and adjusting the angle.
I let out a small, unconvincing laugh, brushing off the encounter, forcing myself to look down at the spreadsheets. But my trembling hands gave me away, clutching the pen so tightly my knuckles were white and painful.
My eyes betrayed me again, unable to resist stealing a glance across the room. Anna. She was a study in perfect composure. Calm. Typing with slow, deliberate precision. Acting as if nothing had happened at all. Like those words ,"Sure", hadn't been whispered from her lips just minutes ago, a casual offer that had potentially incinerated my career. That was what drove me crazy, the nonchalant ease of it. Did she mean it? Or was it just a cruel, elaborate joke to humiliate the clumsy subordinate who dared to speak out of turn? The uncertainty was a physical weight pressing on my chest.
The clock on the system tray crawled toward four. The office began to quiet, chairs scraping against the industrial carpet as people, blissfully unaware of the cosmic shift that had occurred, packed their things. I held myself together until the very end, moving papers pointlessly, stalling, waiting for the safety of escape.
"Need a ride, Anna?" Mark's voice carried, smooth, overly confident, and completely unwelcome, as he leaned toward her desk, his keys dangling and flashing under the light.
Anna looked up and smiled politely, a mask of professional pleasantness, shaking her head. "Thanks, Mark. But I have other plans this evening."
Her words stung more than they should have, a surprising, possessive jab of jealousy. Other plans… With who? With me? The possibility sent a fresh spike of panic through my system.
I grabbed my worn messenger bag before Mark could notice the frantic color rising in my cheeks. I avoided both of them, not meeting either Mark's smug stare nor Anna's unsettling calm, slipping out the office door and catching a taxi instead of the bus. I couldn't stand the confines of the packed bus; I needed immediate, unrestricted escape—to breathe the unfiltered city air.
The city lights streaked into neon blurs as I rested my head against the cold glass of the taxi window, my reflection pale and tense, a ghost of myself. "Drop me near that small, quiet bar on Fifth, please," I muttered to the driver.
The place was blessedly dim, smelling faintly of stale hops and old leather, filled with the low, anonymous hum of tired workers hiding from their own lives. I wasn't much of a drinker, preferring simple soda at home, but tonight I needed something that would burn the anxiety out of my system. I ordered whiskey, straight, strong, and sharp, and retreated to the darkest corner nursing it slowly.
Was she serious? Or just messing with me to teach me a lesson?What if she tells the CEO, her uncle? I could lose my job, my apartment, everything I worked for.But what if she actually meant it? What then? The idea was terrifyingly compelling. A new, forbidden path.
"Rough day, huh?"
The voice, calm and non-judgmental, startled me out of my internal spiral. I looked up to see a waitress, maybe mid-twenties, her eyes warm with curiosity under the dim, amber-colored lighting. She leaned casually against the counter, cleaning a glass, watching me with an expression of gentle empathy.
"You could say that," I muttered, taking another stinging sip of the whiskey.
She tilted her head, then slipped into the booth seat across from me as if she had all the time in the world. "Want to talk about it? Sometimes a stranger is the best listener."
I hesitated. I couldn't possibly share the truth, I used a potentially magical wish to make my untouchable, superior co-worker agree to sleep with me.—but the question slipped out anyway, a diluted plea for advice.
"Have you ever done something your mind, your darkest, most desperate impulse, forced you to do… but then you regret it the moment you realize you might've messed up everything?"
She studied me for a beat, her gaze patient and steady, then gave a soft smile.
"Regret's useless. It's a wasted emotion. Whatever decision you make, there's a reason behind it. Trust that impulse, even if it feels insane. And if it was a mistake—well, you learn, don't you? You pick up the pieces and move on."
Her words were calm, elegant, like a cool, soothing balm against the storm raging inside me. If only she knew the truly stupid, potentially life-ruining thing I had done... she wouldn't waste her time comforting me. Still, her common-sense philosophy offered a momentary anchor. I managed a faint, genuine smile.
"Thanks," I said quietly. Then, surprising myself with a tiny gesture of normalcy, I waved the bartender over and ordered a drink for her.
She thanked me, her eyes warm. "You're nice." She stood up, smoothing the front of her apron. "Don't let whatever it is eat you alive. Face the music. Good luck, stranger."
I left the bar close to nine, the whiskey dulling the sharp edge of my panic but leaving me fundamentally unsettled. The night air was cool, carrying the faint smell of petrichor—rain on the horizon. My apartment was only a short, familiar walk away, and I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to clear my head with the steady rhythm of my steps on the pavement.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, glancing at the screen. A new message. The sender name: Anna.
My eyes widened. The world seemed to sharpen around me. I stopped dead on the sidewalk.
The message was one short, brutal line:
Don't forget what you asked me today.
My heart slammed against my ribs, not just pounding, but vibrating wildly in my chest, a frantic warning siren. The exhilaration of the wish coming true finally overpowered the fear of the consequences. This was real. This was happening.