The elevator hummed as it climbed, soft chimes marking each floor. I gripped my folder tighter, heels clicking against the polished metal. First day. My first real day.
The doors slid open to a hallway bright and immaculate. Desks stretched in neat rows, each surface polished, each folder aligned perfectly. Keyboards clicked in rapid rhythm. Phones rang and were answered before the first buzz faded. Conversations overlapped, fragments of urgency and casual chatter weaving into a steady rhythm that was almost hypnotic.
"Morning," someone greeted a colleague.
"Files aren't ready yet," a voice muttered.
"…meeting in ten…new intern is lost again…"
"…he wants the files on his desk now…"
I walked toward Damian's office, careful to keep my pace measured. Every detail hit me—the brass handles gleaming under overhead lights, the sunlight slanting just so through the blinds, the faint smell of leather and citrus polish inside the office. My chest tightened. This was a world I hadn't known—not mine, not yet.
Inside, Damian's office was impeccable. Files stacked neatly, pen resting at a perfect angle. "Good morning, sir," I said, voice steady despite the flutter in my stomach.
"Morning," he replied, scanning the folder. "See that everything is ready." His tone allowed no hesitation. I nodded, retreating gracefully, heels clicking against the marble floor as I left.
Walking back to my desk, the office hum enveloped me.
"…did you check the board files?"
"…coffee's gone, refill before the meeting."
"…she seems competent, actually."
I noticed the contrasts everywhere. Leather notebooks, gold-rimmed mugs, polished shoes. My own lunch was a humble sandwich tucked into my bag, already half-forgotten amid the scent of espresso and butter croissants. Every polished surface, every crisp suit reminded me of how different my life was. Not in shame, just observation. I adjusted my bag, reminding myself why I was here: stability, opportunity, control.
The printer groaned, a chair squeaked, someone's footsteps tapped in the distance. I felt each sound in my bones, every fragment shaping the rhythm of the morning. I filed papers, organized, double-checked schedules. Each small action felt heavy with importance.
By mid-morning, the office had settled into its usual pulse. Keyboards clicked, phones rang, low murmurs floated in the hallways.
"…intern wandering the halls again…"
"…coffee machine on floor twelve…"
"…files on desk, check them now…"
I felt eyes on me now and then, measuring, observing. I didn't turn. Focus. Precision. Every motion deliberate.
Then I noticed him. Cory. His reflection caught briefly in the glass wall opposite my desk. Confidence radiated from him. Every step deliberate, every gesture measured. My pulse quickened, but I returned to my folder, careful not to give away the reaction his presence stirred.
Damian's office door opened behind me. The pen scratched against paper. "…need these completed before the end of the day. No exceptions."
I continued down the hallway, careful, deliberate, aware. The sounds layered around me: the soft tap of shoes, the low murmur of colleagues, the distant ding of elevators. Every whisper, every fragment of conversation, every office noise painted the morning.
I paused at the printer to retrieve copies for Damian's meeting. Around me, colleagues whispered.
"Did you see the new secretary? Seems capable."
"Coffee's out, refill it before the meeting."
"Files for the board—did she notice?"
I smiled politely, retrieved the papers, and returned to my desk. The hum of the office became a companion. My thoughts, careful and quiet, mingled with it. Every polished surface, every gold-rimmed pen, every expensive coffee cup reminded me of what I hadn't had. And yet, here I was. Counted. Observed. Existing in a world I had only watched from afar.
---
By noon, I paused briefly at the window. The city stretched endlessly below. Cars streamed along streets, trains screeched into stations, children laughed on the sidewalk. Somewhere a mother called, the rhythm of daily life spilling into the sky. I exhaled, letting the sounds mingle with the office's controlled chaos.
I thought of my own apartment, modest and quiet. My simple kitchen. My humble lunch. The contrast was sharp, almost jarring, yet it gave me a strange thrill. Here, I had purpose. Here, I was noticed. Damian's office had given me entry into a world I had only glimpsed from afar, and for the first time, it felt attainable. Not a dream, but a start.
---
The printer buzzed again. The phone rang sharply, keys clicked. Cory passed by once more, silent, observing. My cheeks warmed, and I focused on my work, aligning papers, filing, preparing. Each sound, each fragment of conversation, each glance around the office layered into the rhythm I had to match.
"…he's waiting for the files…"
"…intern, come here for a sec…"
"…meeting starts in five."
Even the background chatter became part of the day, part of me. Every fragment reminded me where I was, who I was among. Every small movement mattered, every glance, every sound.
I finished organizing the last folder just as the clock struck noon. The hallway outside buzzed with life: the soft tap of shoes, murmured voices, laughter, printers groaning. Cory passed again, closer this time. I didn't look up. I didn't need to. The weight of his presence pressed subtly against my awareness. Damian's office door opened. A brief flicker of his eyes as they scanned the hallway, noting me as I worked. A subtle tension, quiet, almost invisible.
The office carried on around us, oblivious to the silent awareness threading through the day. Yet in that corner of the building, under the hum of fluorescent lights and the clicks of keyboards, the rhythm of the morning became mine to navigate, mine to endure, mine to shape.
And through it all, one thought persisted: the world was vast, astonishing, indifferent—but I was here. And that mattered more than anything else.