I was starting to get used to the rhythm of Blake's Media — the quiet rush of footsteps in the halls, the soft click of keyboards, the constant hum of ambition that never seemed to fade.
Every day began the same: coffee, corrections, chaos.
And every day, I told myself not to notice him.
It didn't work.
Mr. Blake was everywhere — in passing conversations, in quick glances across meetings, in the way people lowered their voices whenever he entered the room.
He had a presence that didn't need announcing.
And yet, there was something strange about him — not in what he did, but in what I felt when he was near.
One day he'd seem distant, all sharp edges and quiet command. The next, he'd greet the interns with a brief, almost warm smile, and the entire office would feel lighter for it.
I couldn't explain it.
I stopped trying.
That Friday, Ms. Henley asked me to assist with compiling manuscript reports for a client meeting. It meant staying late — which I didn't mind. The office after hours was peaceful, almost soothing.
Most people had already left; only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the glow of desk lamps kept me company.
Somewhere down the hall, voices murmured — quiet but distinct enough to drift toward me.
"…did you see him today?"
"Mm-hm. Looked different, though…"
"You think—?"
A door shut. Silence.
I froze for a moment, straining to hear, but the voices were gone.
I shook my head, smiling faintly to myself. Office gossip. There was always some new story floating around — about promotions, rival departments, secret relationships. It meant nothing.
And even if it did mean something, it wasn't my business.
I had work to do.
The next morning, Ms. Henley asked me to bring a report to Mr. Blake's office.
My heart picked up speed before I could stop it.
When I reached the top floor, the air felt different — thinner, quieter. The kind of silence that makes you double-check your steps.
I knocked gently, half-hoping he wouldn't answer.
"Come in," his voice called — calm, measured, familiar.
He was behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, sunlight spilling across the dark wood.
For a moment, I just stood there, watching him — the same boy from the subway, except now every piece of him looked sculpted by power and purpose.
He looked up. "Ms. Jazmyne."
"Sir," I said quickly, stepping forward to place the folder on his desk.
"Thank you," he said, glancing through the papers. Then, softer, "You've been working late."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Yes, sir. Just trying to keep up."
His lips curved slightly, like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if he should. "That kind of dedication doesn't go unnoticed here."
I nodded, trying not to stare at his hands — steady, elegant, the same ones that had once held my notepad on a subway bench.
"Thank you," I murmured again.
He leaned back, studying me quietly. "Tell me — do you enjoy it here?"
"Yes," I said, maybe a little too fast. "It's... different from anything I've ever known. It feels like I'm learning something real."
"Good." His voice softened, thoughtful. "Keep it that way. Most people lose that hunger once they start to belong."
Something about the way he said belong made my chest tighten.
"I don't think I'll ever stop wanting to be better," I said quietly.
He met my gaze then — really met it — and for one long, suspended moment, it felt like the world outside his office didn't exist.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"You can go," he said gently. "Thank you, Ms. Jazmyne."
"Of course."
I turned to leave, my heart thudding unevenly in my chest.
Just as I reached the door, I heard him mutter something under his breath — too low to make out, but my name was in it.
I hesitated, almost looked back, but forced myself to walk out.
The whispers came again later that afternoon.
Not sharp, not cruel — just soft, uncertain, like secrets trying to stay hidden.
"…someone said he—"
"Shh, you'll get us fired."
"I'm not saying anything, I just—he didn't look the same, did he?"
The rest faded into laughter.
I told myself it was nothing.
People see what they want to see. Offices twist rumors into stories faster than a printing press.
Still, as I returned to my desk, the words lingered. Didn't look the same.
Maybe they meant something simple. Maybe they didn't mean anything at all.
Either way, I refused to dwell on it.
That night, back in my tiny apartment, I sat on my bed with my notebook open and a pen resting between my fingers.
For the first time in weeks, I tried to write — really write — something that wasn't an assignment or an analysis.
But the words wouldn't come.
Every sentence I started turned into him. His eyes, his voice, that look he gave me when he said belong.
I shut the notebook, exhaling shakily.
I couldn't let myself get distracted. I'd worked too hard to get here.
So what if he didn't remember me? So what if people whispered strange things? None of it mattered.
I had rent to pay, deadlines to meet, and something to prove.
I wasn't going to lose myself in a mystery that didn't belong to me.
Still… when I finally lay down, my mind refused to rest.
Because even if I told myself it meant nothing —
Even if I swore I didn't care —
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those iridescent blue eyes watching me like they were trying to remember a story they'd once written and lost.