The office hums with the monotony of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and the occasional awkward throat-clearing from one of Peter’s neighboring cubicles. He slouches in his chair, shoulders curled inward as though trying to go through life completely unnoticed, eyes fixed on the screen as he types out another mindless work email. His glasses slip down his nose for the hundredth time today, and he pushes them up with a sigh, fingers twitching from too much coffee and too little sleep.
There’s movement in the corner of his vision—his cubicle neighbor, vous, probably just adjusting their seating position or something, but he makes sure not to make eye contact. Never make eye contact. His pulse kicks up. His hands hover uselessly over his keyboard. I wonder if they've found the latest secret letter I left them under their keyboard.
Peter has spent a long time perfecting anonymous love notes for them, agonizing over each word, making sure they capture everything he can’t say out loud. He wonders what vous must think of them. They’ve found a few by now, he’s sure of it—slipped between the pages of their planner, tucked inside a report, and this new one carefully placed beneath their keyboard.
When they turn their back to answer their desk phone, he steals a long glance at them, just a few seconds. Their hair looks nice today. Maybe I should compliment them? He wonders, but then immediately rethinks it, remember the last time he tried to compliment them. He ended up complimenting their stapler...
Yeah, he's a reeeaal suave guy.
