Monday came with a sky that couldn't decide what it wanted to be—half cloudy, half brilliant. I dressed in my usual palette of neutral beige, slacks that didn't hug too tight, and a tucked-in blouse that felt too stiff for how nervous I was. I checked my reflection twice, maybe three times. Told myself it wasn't because I hoped to run into Harper.
But I did.
Hope, that is.
I walked into the office a little earlier than usual, pretending it was just to get a head start on emails. The hum of fluorescent lights and clack of heels on tile filled the space. My cubicle greeted me with silence, just the way I liked it.
Until I heard her laugh.
It wasn't loud, but it was Harper's. And it wasn't just hers.
I peeked down the hallway toward the canteen. She was standing there—coffee in one hand, hair loosely pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Her free hand was animated in the air, gesturing mid-story.
Beside her stood someone else.
Tall, confident. A woman with short, jet-black curls and a crooked grin that screamed history.
Harper nudged her playfully. "You're making that up."
"Am not," the woman replied. Her voice was smooth, like she'd never had to explain herself to anyone. "You cried. Full-on sobs. Over a dog in a toothpaste commercial. That happened."
Harper covered her face, laughing harder. "I forgot about that."
They looked so natural—comfortable in a way that didn't require explanation.
My stomach knotted.
I ducked back into my cubicle and stared at my screen, the login blur glaring at me like it knew my thoughts. Who was she? A cousin? A friend? Or someone who had once held Harper closer than I'd ever get?
Minutes later, as if summoned by my panic, Harper appeared near the cubicles with her guest in tow.
I straightened, clicked into spreadsheets I didn't care about, and tried not to watch her approach.
"Morning, Carly," Harper said, her voice gentle, familiar.
I looked up and tried to smile. "Hey."
"This is Rae," she said, gesturing. "My best friend. She's visiting from out of town for a few days. Used to work here, actually."
Rae extended a hand, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "So you're Carly."
Something in the way she said it made me blink. Like I'd already been mentioned. Labeled. Filed somewhere.
"Nice to meet you," I said, voice thinner than I wanted.
"Likewise," Rae replied, studying me for a second longer than necessary. Then she smiled, and it was the kind of smile people gave when they knew something you didn't.
"I'll catch you later," Harper said, giving Rae's arm a squeeze before heading off to her desk. Rae lingered a moment longer.
"You work closely with Harper?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Not really. Just… same floor."
She nodded, then added with a smirk, "Right. Same floor."
Then she walked away, and my heart wouldn't slow down for the next hour.
That whole week, Rae was a presence I couldn't ignore.
She wasn't loud. She didn't even visit the office more than once or twice. But she was in Harper's orbit—meeting her after work, showing up at lunch, making Harper laugh in that unguarded, belly-deep way I hadn't yet earned.
And me? I stayed polite. Invisible. Watching the way Harper looked at Rae, the easy affection in their conversations, the shared history I could never compete with.
One evening, I found myself walking slower as I exited the building, hoping Harper would show.
She didn't.
Instead, I saw her across the street, her hand casually linked with Rae's as they strolled toward the corner bookstore. Not romantic. But intimate in a way that didn't need labels.
They looked good together.
That night, I didn't write in my journal.
I couldn't.
Friday came with a storm warning and a canceled meeting. Most people worked from home. I stayed, needing the distraction, needing to not see my bedroom ceiling and wonder what Harper was doing.
Near noon, I headed to the canteen for something hot. To my surprise, Harper was there—alone, stirring her tea absentmindedly.
"Hey," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
She looked up, surprised. "Carly. I thought you'd be working from home."
"Thought about it. But I like it quiet."
She smiled. "Same."
I hesitated, then asked, "Rae gone already?"
"Yeah," she said, a little sigh escaping. "She left this morning."
I sat across from her before I could overthink it.
"You two are close," I said carefully.
Harper nodded, eyes softening. "She's been in my life since college. One of those people you don't have to explain yourself to, you know?"
I nodded. But I didn't know.
Not really.
Harper leaned forward. "She told me she liked you, by the way."
My breath caught. "She did?"
"Yeah. Said you were quiet, but honest. That you notice things."
I smiled faintly, unsure what to do with the warmth that flared in my chest.
"I'm glad you stayed," Harper added, sipping her tea.
Something about the way she said it made me bold.
"Sometimes it's hard to stay," I admitted. "In a space that doesn't feel like yours."
She looked at me then—not past me, not through me. At me. And she didn't look away.
"I get that more than you think," she said.
Silence fell between us. Not the awkward kind. The heavy kind. The kind that held meaning just beneath the surface.
"I should get back to work," I said softly.
"Yeah," she said. "Me too."
But neither of us moved.
Finally, she reached into her bag and handed me a small paperback.
"I finished it. Thought you might like it."
It was The Bell Jar.
I took it like it was something sacred. "Thanks."
She stood, shouldering her bag. "See you Monday?"
"Yeah," I said. "See you Monday."
And just like that, she was gone again.
That night, I read the first twenty pages of the book. Then I reread them. Then I underlined a sentence that felt like it had been waiting for me:
"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am."
I am.
I stared at those words until my eyes burned.
I am Carly.
I feel this.
I want her.
I am afraid.
The weekend was quiet. Too quiet.
I wandered the aisles of a used bookstore on Saturday and bought a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray—the same edition I'd seen Harper reading weeks ago. A part of me wanted to understand her world, her mind.
Sunday, I journaled again. Wrote about Rae, about how her presence had shaken something in me. Not jealousy, exactly. More like fear.
Fear that I was always two steps behind. That I would always be too careful, too late.
I wrote until my hand cramped.
Monday arrived with sun. I walked into the office trying not to hope too hard. But she was there. At the coffee machine.
She turned the second I walked in. "Hey, you."
"Hey," I echoed, heart lifting.
"I brought something for you," she said, rummaging through her bag.
She handed me a sticky note with a single quote scribbled on it:
"Sometimes, people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed." —Nietzsche
"I thought you'd like it," she said.
I smiled. "I do."
I wanted to say more.
I wanted to say: I think about you when you're not here. I want to know what makes you laugh at midnight. I want to ask if there's a version of this story where you and I end up in the same chapter.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, I slipped the sticky note into my pocket and held it like a promise.