By Thursday, the tension had turned into a kind of rhythm—familiar, quiet, almost tolerable. Samantha had learned how to move around it. She answered emails, joined meetings, smiled when she was supposed to. Nathan did the same, like two people playing music from different sheets that somehow still matched in tempo.  

They spoke, but never about anything that mattered.  

And yet, every silence between their words said too much.  

Miles noticed, as usual. He leaned against her desk, coffee in hand, pretending to check his phone. “You two are like an art installation,” he said. “Minimal communication. Maximum tension.”  

Samantha didn’t look up. “You should really start a podcast.”  

“I’d call it ‘Repressed Feelings: The Office Edition.’”  

“Catchy. But no one would listen.”  

“Oh, they’d listen. Half this floor is invested in your saga.”  

“Miles.”  

He grinned. “Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”  

When he walked away, she exhaled slowly, staring at the half-finished spreadsheet on her screen. The numbers blurred for a second. She blinked, forcing focus.  

Across the office, Nathan was talking with Claire, his tone steady, the kind that made people listen. His jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. The picture of control. Except when he thought no one was looking, his fingers tapped once, twice, against the table—a habit she’d learned meant distraction.  

The next few days blurred together. Meetings bled into nights. Nathan stayed late most evenings; so did she, though neither admitted the reason.  

By Friday, the air felt heavier. Samantha packed her things slowly, the city already dimming outside the windows. Most of the team had left hours ago. Only the hum of the vending machine filled the space.  

She was halfway to the elevator when she noticed the light still on in the conference room. Nathan sat at the far end, laptop open, papers scattered. The glow from the screen traced the edges of his face, tired but intent.  

She hesitated. Leave, or turn back.  

Her hand hovered over the elevator button, then dropped. She turned and walked back.  

She knocked lightly on the doorframe. “You’re still here.”  

He looked up. “So are you.”  

“Barely.”  

He gestured to the chair beside him. “Join the club.”  

“I was just heading out.”  

“Five more minutes won’t hurt.”  

She smiled faintly. “You always say that.”  

“And I’m usually right.”  

She sat, setting her bag on the floor. For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.  

“What are you working on?” she asked.  

“Next week’s proposal.”  

“Didn’t you finish that yesterday?”  

“I didn’t like how it ended.”  

“Perfectionist.”  

“Hypocrite.”  

She laughed quietly. “Fair.”  

He leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. “About the dinner—”  

She shook her head. “You don’t have to.”  

“I want to.”  

“Nathan—”  

“I know it looked bad.”  

She met his eyes. “You don’t have to explain. You were working.”  

“That’s not what I meant.”  

“Then what did you mean?”  

He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You think I didn’t notice what it looked like?”  

Her breath caught. “You noticed?”  

“I notice everything. Maybe that’s the problem.”  

She looked away, fingers tightening around her bag strap. “You don’t have to feel guilty.”  

“I’m not sure guilt’s the right word.”  

“Then what is?”  

He exhaled. “I don’t know. But it’s there.”  

Silence spread like light—slow, inevitable.  

She said softly, “You know, for someone who talks about clarity all the time, you’re terrible at it.”  

He smiled, just barely. “Occupational irony.”  

“Does that make me the same?”  

“Maybe worse.”  

She looked back at him. “You really think this is sustainable? Pretending like nothing’s changed?”  

He met her gaze. “Do you?”  

She paused, then shook her head. “No.”  

They stayed that way for a long time. The kind of stillness that wasn’t empty but full—of questions, of things neither was brave enough to say.  

Nathan broke it first. “You once said distance isn’t about space.”  

“I did.”  

“What is it about, then?”  

“Choice.”  

“And this?”  

She smiled faintly. “Still undecided.”  

An hour passed without them noticing. The office had gone completely quiet, the city lights blinking like tired eyes.  

Nathan closed his laptop, leaning forward on his elbows. “You ever think about leaving?”  

“The company?”  

He nodded.  

“Sometimes,” she said. “But then I think about why I stayed this long.”  

“And why is that?”  

She hesitated. “Because I like building something that matters.”  

“With me?”  

She smiled. “With the team.”  

“Right,” he said, but his tone gave him away.  

She stood, stretching slightly. “You should go home.”  

“So should you.”  

“Maybe I like the quiet.”  

“Or maybe you like the noise it hides.”  

That stopped her. She turned to face him fully. “Why do you always do that?”  

“Do what?”  

“Say things that sound like they mean nothing when you actually mean everything.”  

He looked at her, expression unreadable. “Maybe because saying it straight would ruin it.”  

“Ruin what?”  

“This.”  

The word hung in the air. Simple. Dangerous.  

She took a slow breath. “You think not saying it makes it safer?”  

“I think it keeps it real.”  

“I don’t.”  

They stood across from each other, the faint hum of the city filling what words couldn’t.  

He looked down, then back up. “You make me second-guess things I used to be sure of.”  

She said softly, “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”  

“Maybe not.”  

He smiled, small but honest. “You really should go home.”  

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Before you start making sense.”  

“Too late.”  

Outside the office, the hallway was dim, quiet. They walked side by side toward the elevator, neither speaking. When the doors opened, the reflection caught both of them—two silhouettes standing just close enough to look connected, just far enough to deny it.  

As the elevator descended, Samantha said, “You know what’s funny?”  

“What?”  

“This... whatever it is between us. It’s like the city at night. Looks quiet, but it’s never really still.”  

He looked at her, and for once, didn’t try to answer.  

When the doors opened at the lobby, she stepped out first. He followed. The air was cooler, the street almost empty.  

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.  

She shook her head. “I’ll walk.”  

“It’s late.”  

“I know.”  

“Be careful.”  

“Always.”  

She started walking, but he didn’t move. Something in her made her stop and glance back. He was still standing under the building’s light, hands in his pockets, watching her go.  

Their eyes met once more, across a small stretch of pavement and everything else that had come between them.  

Neither smiled. Neither turned away.  

The city lights flickered against the windows above them,  

and in that silence—gentle, unspoken, almost tender—  

the distance finally said what words never could.