The days that followed were quieter than she expected.  

Not cold—just still, as if everyone was waiting for something to reset.  

Emails came and went, projects moved forward, and Nathan became polite again. Too polite.  

Samantha found herself missing the easy rhythm that used to fill the space between words.  

Now, every exchange was careful choreography.  

Miles noticed immediately. “This is worse than the cold war. At least that had spies.”  

She didn’t look up from her screen. “You’re imagining things.”  

He leaned over her desk. “No, I’m witnessing things. Tragic, slow-motion, office-romance self-sabotage.”  

She sighed. “You’re dramatic.”  

“Correct. But not wrong.”  

When she finally looked up, his expression wasn’t teasing anymore. “Whatever it is—don’t let silence win, Sam. It always does.”  

That night, Samantha worked late, long after everyone had gone.  

The office lights cast a dull glow, reflecting off the glass walls like faint ghosts of movement.  

Nathan’s office door was closed, but the light inside was still on.  

She debated knocking.  

Instead, she packed up.  

As she reached for her bag, her phone buzzed—an email from him.  

Just a single line: *Can we talk tomorrow?*  

She typed *Sure.*  

Paused.  

Deleted it.  

She typed again: *Of course.*  

Then hesitated once more before hitting send.  

It was small.  

But small things carried weight.  

Morning came gray and heavy with drizzle.  

Nathan was already at his desk when she arrived, coffee half-finished, expression unreadable.  

“About yesterday,” he began, but stopped when the door opened—Claire, all brightness and perfume.  

“Team meeting in five,” she chirped.  

Nathan nodded, expression tightening almost imperceptibly.  

Samantha forced a polite smile, then turned away.  

By the time the meeting started, the words had vanished again.  

They sat across the table, surrounded by chatter and screens.  

Nathan spoke with his usual composure, his tone steady, his eyes on the data.  

But every now and then, she caught him glancing her way—quick, restrained.  

When the meeting ended, everyone filed out except them.  

She started to gather her notes, but he said softly, “Samantha.”  

She froze.  

He waited until the room emptied completely.  

“I keep thinking about what I said,” he murmured.  

She looked down. “You don’t have to.”  

“I do.”  

The sincerity in his tone unsettled her more than the distance had.  

“I wasn’t—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “I wasn’t frustrated with you. I was frustrated with myself.”  

“Why?”  

“Because I thought I could separate things. Work, emotion, people. But apparently not.”  

Her pulse skipped. “Nathan—”  

He met her eyes. “You matter more than I planned for.”  

The air stilled.  

She wanted to believe him. She also wanted to run.  

So she chose the third option: silence.  

He nodded slowly, as if he expected it, then gathered his notes and left.  

She sat there for a long time after, staring at the empty chair across from her.  

Miles found her later by the vending machine, holding a bottle of water she hadn’t opened.  

“You look like someone who just saw a ghost.”  

She gave him a thin smile. “Something like that.”  

“Want to talk about it?”  

“No.”  

“Then let me guess.”  

She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t.”  

He ignored her. “He said something honest. You didn’t know what to do with it.”  

Her silence confirmed it.  

Miles sighed. “You two are impossible.”  

“Maybe we’re just realistic.”  

“Realistic?” He shook his head. “That’s just fear with better PR.”  

She almost laughed, almost cried. “You really should charge for these sessions.”  

He smiled softly. “You couldn’t afford me.”  

The rain intensified by evening.  

Samantha finished her last report, closed her laptop, and stood by the window.  

The city glowed under the storm—blurred lights, moving umbrellas, cars slicing through puddles.  

Her phone buzzed again.  

Nathan.  

*Heading out? Roads are flooding near Central. I can drop you off if you want.*  

She stared at the message. Her first instinct was to refuse.  

But her second—the one that remembered how his voice softened when he said “you matter”—hesitated.  

She typed: *I’ll be fine.*  

Then deleted it.  

Typed again: *Thank you. I’ll manage.*  

Paused.  

Deleted that too.  

In the end, she didn’t reply at all.  

She grabbed her umbrella and left before she could change her mind.  

Outside, the rain was relentless.  

By the time she reached the subway, her shoes were soaked, her coat heavy with water.  

She stood under the station awning, watching the storm blur the city into watercolor.  

She thought about the message she didn’t send, and the one she wished he hadn’t.  

She thought about the way he said *you matter*,  

and how terrifying it was to want to believe him.  

The train arrived, wind rushing through the tunnel.  

She stepped inside, found a seat by the window, and watched the raindrops race each other down the glass.  

Her reflection stared back—tired, composed, still pretending.  

Across town, Nathan sat in his office, staring at his screen long after everyone had left.  

Her inbox thread was still open.  

His last message—unanswered—blinked faintly on the monitor.  

He hovered over the chat window, typing, deleting, typing again.  

*Get home safe.*  

*Sorry about today.*  

*Forget I said that.*  

He stopped, frustrated at his own restraint.  

Instead, he clicked open a draft he’d written hours ago—a message he never intended to send.  

*I don’t know how to talk to you without overthinking every word.*  

*I’m trying.*  

He read it once more, then closed the window without saving.  

The office was silent, the kind that pressed against your ribs.  

He turned off the lights, leaving the monitor’s glow as the only trace of movement.  

Outside, thunder rolled through the city.  

Samantha reached her apartment past midnight.  

The hallway light flickered, echoing the pulse of distant rain.  

She set down her bag, peeled off her wet coat, and stood still, listening.  

Everything felt too quiet.  

She walked to the window and looked out at the storm.  

For a long time, she didn’t move.  

Then she opened her phone, scrolled to his name, and began typing.  

*I read your message.*  

*Thank you.*  

*I’m fine.*  

She stared at the words, then backspaced slowly, letter by letter, until nothing remained.  

She saved it as a draft, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Maybe tomorrow.”  

The rain softened outside.  

And somewhere across the city, two unsent messages waited in silence,  

carrying the weight of everything they still didn’t know how to say.