Isabelle arrived at the office on Monday morning with a familiar sense of anticipation, only to find it quickly replaced by a subtle, almost painful emptiness. Robert's desk was conspicuously empty. His chair remained neatly tucked in, his belongings untouched.
At first, she assumed he had an early meeting. But as the hours ticked by, it became clear: he wasn't coming in today.
She told herself he was probably handling client matters.He's a consultant. This isn't unusual. she reasoned.
But beneath that rational thought, a stubborn ache gnawed at her chest. She missed the small moments — the quiet confidence in his presence, the way his calm efficiency steadied her when chaos erupted, the brief, unspoken glances that had become their language. Now, even that comfort was gone.
She tried to focus on her own tasks: client reports, scheduling, preparation for upcoming meetings. Each spreadsheet, each carefully worded email, became a lifeline, a way to anchor herself in a world she could control. But every time she typed "Best regards, Isabelle" in a professional email, she felt the echo of a conversation that should have been so much more.
From his home office, Robert stared at the blinking cursor in his email. He had deliberately avoided the office, avoided the temptation of proximity, the quiet pull of his own emotions.
Every time he imagined seeing her across the conference room, watching her move through the office with her usual effortless poise, he felt a surge of longing that he couldn't allow himself to indulge. He couldn't trust himself — not today, not tomorrow, maybe not ever — to maintain professional boundaries if he was close enough to touch her.
So he stayed home. Worked from home. Responded only when necessary. Every email was stripped of warmth, entirely professional, the kind of communication that allowed business to continue as usual while keeping emotional distance intact.
Yet, even in those carefully crafted messages, he found himself pausing over phrases longer than necessary, wondering if the tone could be interpreted differently, if she might sense the restraint behind the words, the restraint that masked the storm within him.
Days turned into a week, and the absence of Robert's physical presence became a constant ache. She missed his quiet steadiness, his subtle protection, the unspoken support he had always offered. She found herself scanning the office early in the morning, half-expecting to see him at his desk, only to remember he was at home, working remotely.
She chastised herself for feeling disappointed. She told herself she should focus on her work. She reminded herself that this was necessary, that their professional relationship required boundaries, and that she was capable, efficient, and self-sufficient.
Emails became their only means of communication, brief and clipped.
Please confirm receipt of the attached report.
The client presentation has been rescheduled to Thursday.
Kindly advise on the timelines for approvals.
No pleasantries, no casual remarks, no shared jokes. Just the precision of work, stripped bare. And yet, each carefully composed email carried a weight neither of them could fully acknowledge.
He read her emails with the same measured attention he had always given her at the office, yet now each line felt heavier, charged with unspoken tension. He wanted to reach out, to see her, to say something — anything — that might bridge the gap he had imposed. But he knew the consequences.
One glance, one touch, one moment of unguarded familiarity and the fragile equilibrium they were clinging to could collapse. He couldn't risk it — not with her life, her children, her reputation potentially entangled in any reckless impulse on his part.
So he remained distant, professional, detached. And with each passing day, the ache of restraint settled deeper into his chest.
She noticed the subtle change in her own behaviour. She declined informal coffee breaks. She stopped participating in small talk, jokes, or casual updates. She buried herself in schedules, spreadsheets, and reports, telling herself it was necessary.
Yet, she felt the silent absence of his presence like a cold weight. She longed for just a fleeting glance, a quiet word, even a shared sigh over a tricky client — anything to remind her that he existed in the same physical world.
Each time she read his brief, professional emails, she felt a mixture of gratitude for the clarity and frustration at the absence of warmth. She knew he was distancing himself to protect her — or perhaps himself — but the knowledge didn't soften the ache.
He couldn't sleep properly at night, haunted by imagined scenarios: her struggling through a complicated client issue, dealing with Julian-like interruptions, managing the chaos of the office without his quiet presence to shield her. He wanted to be there, wanted to reach out, but he couldn't allow himself.
So he remained afar, communicating only when necessary, hoping that maintaining strict professionalism would be enough.
Although, each response carried with it the silent acknowledgment of what had happened, of what he felt, of the longing he tried to suppress.
He was convinced this was what she needed. That the distance, the silence, the professionalism, were for her protection, for her comfort. Yet in maintaining it, he was quietly punishing himself, suffering the ache of separation because it was the safest course — the only way to ensure he wouldn't hurt her.
By the end of the second week, she felt the toll of it. London's dreary weather, the long hours and relentless schedules pressed down on her. She noticed her own irritability, the subtle exhaustion etched into her expression and the weight of loneliness that stretched across days once filled with the brief but grounding presence of Robert.
She missed feeling seen. Every time she opened an email from him, concise and precise, her chest tightened with both relief and longing.
Each day, he imagined her moving through the office, carrying her workload with competence and grace. He imagined her interactions with colleagues, her subtle smiles, her quiet authority. He felt a dull ache in his chest, a longing he could not act upon.
He worried she might feel abandoned, undervalued, or unsupported. He hated that he couldn't be there to reassure her, to stand beside her as he had before.
At the end of another day, she shut down her laptop with a sigh as London's evening drizzle tapped against the windows; a reminder of the city's unyielding pace. She left the office, her coat pulled tight, pushing against the cold evening air.
Her footsteps echoed on the pavement, the city alive yet indifferent. And in the quiet spaces between the sounds of traffic and distant voices, she allowed herself a fleeting thought: He's keeping away because it's safer. For both of us.
Yet, the ache remained. The tension, the frustration — it lingered, threading itself through every action, every email, every glance across the office that no longer existed.
Both of them were hurting, both felt lost, both were clinging to professional walls while silently craving the connection that had been so abruptly ignited and so cruelly restrained.