The next morning, I arrive fifteen minutes early instead of ten.
It isn't intentional. My body simply knows the rhythm now—the quiet before the lights change, before the hum begins.
The air smells faintly of toner and last night's rain. I realign the pens, wipe the faint ring from his desk, and straighten the stack of reports until everything looks ready to be seen.
At eight fifty-one, the elevator chimes.
Right on time.
He steps out, coat over his arm, eyes already in motion. He never walks quickly, yet people clear the path for him instinctively, as if the air anticipates his pace.
I stand. "Good morning."
He nods, brief but complete. "Morning."
He pauses beside my desk. "We'll need to finalize the quarterly brief before the client call at three. Clear your schedule after lunch."
"Yes."
He nods once, the smallest sign of acknowledgment, and moves toward his office.
Even after the door closes, the faint echo of his voice seems to shape the silence.
By midmorning, I've read through the brief twice. The numbers are precise, the formatting perfect. I check again anyway.
At noon, I look up to find him standing at my desk, sleeves rolled, expression even.
"Lunch," he says. Not a question.
"I'll go now," I reply.
He studies me for a moment, gaze resting on my face like an inspection that never feels unkind. Then he nods, and walks away.
Downstairs, the café hums with noise that feels almost violent after a morning of silence. I order a sandwich I don't want, eat half, and watch people move with careless energy. There's a strange kind of envy in that—being able to move without precision.
When I return, the building feels muted again.
He's already in the conference room, jacket on the chair, papers spread neatly before him.
"Close the door," he says.
I do.
He gestures to the seat beside him. "Sit."
We work through the slides, his voice low, his focus steady. He never rushes—every word feels measured, every correction more rhythm than criticism.
When he leans over to check my screen, his sleeve brushes the edge of my notebook. The faint smell of his cologne—clean, restrained—settles in the space between us.
"The spacing here," he says softly, pointing with his pen. "Too much white. Bring the text closer to the axis. Attention drifts otherwise."
I nod, adjusting. He watches closely, the light from the monitor reflecting in his eyes.
When I finish, he murmurs, "Better."
That one word makes the air in the room tilt.
The meeting runs long, though neither of us seems to mind. There's something calming about his precision—it fills every gap before I can feel it.
At two thirty, we finish the last page. He glances at me, one brow raised slightly. "You'll join the client call."
I hesitate. "If you want me to."
"I do."
He straightens his cuffs, then adds, "You know the data better than anyone. Speak clearly."
"Yes," I whisper.
He holds my gaze for a second too long, then walks out.
At three, the meeting begins.
He leads, of course—voice steady, expression composed. When he gestures toward me, it's subtle, but my heart still stutters.
"Evans will present the variance summary," he says.
I take over. Words spill from me cleanly, trained by repetition, but his quiet presence beside me changes the rhythm. I'm hyperaware of the way he nods at certain phrases, the small crease near his temple when he's thinking, the stillness that feels like trust.
When I finish, he adds, "As you can see, the transition was handled precisely."
The word lands heavier than it should.
When the call ends, the others leave quickly, their chairs scraping against the floor.
He stays.
He stacks the papers, aligning each edge until they're perfect. "Stay a moment," he says.
I do.
He doesn't speak immediately. His gaze lingers on the table surface before lifting to me. "You handled yourself well. You didn't hesitate."
"I tried not to."
His expression softens slightly—not a smile, just the faintest easing of tension. "That's what professionalism looks like."
For a second, the distance between us feels thinner than it should.
Then he looks back down at the table. "You made a note on one of the draft slides—'check tone.' What did you mean?"
"Oh—just that the language felt too formal for the client."
He leans in to read the line, his hair falling slightly out of place. "You were right," he says quietly. "It reads better now."
I lower my gaze. "Thank you."
When he straightens, the atmosphere resets. "That's all," he says.
"Yes."
The clock reads six by the time I finish the follow-up tasks. The office has emptied. Only the sound of the building's ventilation remains.
I tidy my desk, close my laptop, and turn off the small desk lamp. The silence feels almost domestic now—familiar, belonging.
He's still in his office. The door is half-open, light spilling out in a soft rectangle. He's typing, posture exact, eyes on the screen.
I hesitate, then call softly, "Good night."
He doesn't look up immediately. "Leaving?"
"Yes."
He glances toward the clock, then back to me. "You've done enough for today."
Something in the way he says it—flat, factual—sounds almost gentle.
"Thank you," I reply, and leave before the moment stretches any further.
The elevator ride down feels long. The building hum fades behind me, replaced by the faint pulse of city sounds—car horns, footsteps, the rattle of evening air.
Outside, the sky hangs in gray-blue layers. I walk the six blocks home instead of taking the train. It feels like a way to uncoil from the day.
Streetlights flicker on one by one. A man sells roasted nuts from a cart. The smell follows me all the way to my building.
When I reach my apartment, the stillness surprises me. No hum, no clock ticking, no measured voice giving quiet instructions.
Just silence—wide and formless.
I turn on a single lamp and pour water for tea. The kettle hisses softly, like something remembering warmth.
My phone vibrates once on the counter. I pick it up before it finishes buzzing.
The app glows against the dark.
I open it.
@DearStranger: worked with him all afternoon. nothing happened, but it felt like something could.
@ListeningEar: could? or did?
I watch the cursor blink.
@DearStranger: not really. it was just quiet. but the kind that listens back.
@ListeningEar: maybe that's what connection feels like—silence that notices.
I type slowly.
@DearStranger: maybe. or maybe i just wanted to be noticed.
There's a pause long enough for me to hear the kettle click off.
@ListeningEar: sometimes wanting is the loudest sound in the room.
I don't reply. The words sink somewhere low in my chest.
The screen dims. The apartment fades back into quiet.
I picture him at his desk—lamp still on, coat draped over the chair, the window glass reflecting both the city and his own calm expression. He always looks composed, but I wonder if he ever sits there thinking of nothing, the way I'm trying to now.
I drink the tea. It's cooled already.
Tomorrow, the lights will turn from blue to white again.
And I'll be there—early, as always—
telling myself it's about routine,
when what I'm really waiting for
is the sound of his voice saying morning,
like an entire day held between two syllables.