Time blurred.
The days passed not with noise or color, but with a soft greyness that seemed to seep into everything. The office lights still flickered with their usual hum. The keyboards still clattered faintly in the background. But something in the air had shifted.
He was gone.
There was no announcement. No goodbye.
Just... absence.
At first, she didn't think much of it. People took leaves, had meetings, worked remotely. But then a second day passed. Then a third. Then a week — and still, no sign of him.
His chair stayed empty.
The corner of the pantry table where he used to sit in silence — quietly staring at his phone or simply existing in that introspective way of his — remained untouched.
No familiar footsteps down the hallway.
No glimpse of him returning from lunch, quietly holding his usual cold coffee.
And that was the thing — she had always known it was him just by his footsteps.
Not because they were loud, but because they had a rhythm.
A steady presence.
Soft. Intentional. Like someone who never wanted to disturb the world, only move through it gently, unnoticed.
She hadn't realized how deeply she had memorized that sound until it vanished.
The truth came quietly, almost carelessly.
Someone mentioned it in passing — that he was sick. That it was serious enough to need hospitalization. That there was surgery involved.
Her world stilled.
For a moment, it felt like her chest had caved in — like the breath she was about to take had decided to wait.
The rest of the floor carried on. Keyboards clacked. Notification chimes blinked in and out of rhythm. Someone sighed near the water station, muttering about a spill. But she sat in her corner, fingers suspended above the keyboard, hearing none of it.
He was sick.
She didn't know what kind. Didn't ask.
She was afraid to.
All she knew was that he wasn't there, and her heart ached in a way she hadn't expected.
That night, and many nights after, she lit silent prayers like candles in her chest.
For healing.
For strength.
For a safe return — whether or not he ever looked her way again.
She drafted a message. Just a small one. Just enough to let him know that someone out there was thinking of him.
"Hi… I heard you're not feeling well. I hope you're okay. Please take care."
But she couldn't send it.
Every time her finger hovered over the button, fear curled around her like smoke.
What if it annoyed him?
What if he thought she was crossing a line?
What if her kindness was an intrusion — another unwelcome gesture from someone who had already meant too much, too quietly?
And more than anything...
What if he didn't reply at all?
So she left it unsent.
Saved in her drafts — like so many of her feelings.
Half-formed.
Hidden.
Unfinished.
Instead, she waited.
She waited with a quiet kind of devotion.
Not the kind that expected anything in return.
Not the kind that demanded space.
But the kind that simply was.
A hope that lived quietly in the corner of her heart —
The kind of love that didn't announce itself. That didn't knock or beg to be let in.
It simply stayed outside the door, praying for the warmth of the person inside.
And even if he never knew...
She knew.
She knew how deeply she cared.
She knew what it meant to sit in the ache of worry — to carry someone in silence.
There are loves that shout and break things.
And then there are loves like hers —
Patient.
Aching.
Invisible.
She folded her hands.
Closed her eyes.
And whispered his name into the stillness.
Not to be heard —
Just to be near.