Days passed.
One day turned into another, and then another—quietly, painfully.
No messages.
No calls.
No casual hey.
She counted without meaning to.
Mornings without a "good morning."
Evenings without a check-in.
Nights where her phone stayed exactly where it was—silent.
He seemed busy. Too busy. Lost in a world she wanted so badly to be part of, yet couldn't enter. At the office, it was only work—files, meetings, deadlines. Nothing personal. Nothing warm. Just professionalism wrapped in distance.
And then came the gossip.
It always did.
Her fellow interns—who thrived on whispers and half-truths—were huddled together one afternoon, voices low but careless.
"Do you know he's already in a relationship?"
"I heard he was flirting with another girl too."
"Every girl here looks ready to throw herself at him."
"He's good-looking, no doubt, but shouldn't character matter too?"
The words hit her one by one.
She didn't interrupt.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't defend him out loud.
She just listened.
Her chest felt heavy, like something fragile inside her was cracking—but not breaking. Not yet.
She told herself it was just noise. Office rumours. The same place where stories grew faster than truth. The same people who smiled politely and judged relentlessly.
She chose not to believe them.
Because believing them would mean questioning him.
And questioning him would mean questioning everything she had felt.
So she held onto the version of him she knew—the one who noticed her, who remembered things, who stayed up talking for hours. The one who made her feel seen for the first time in her life.
She wanted to believe him.
Not the whispers.
Not the assumptions.
Not the stories shaped by jealousy and boredom.
Blind belief felt safer than doubt.
Even if it hurt.
And so, she waited.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Hoping that one day, the silence would break—and prove the rumours wrong.
But she wasn't the kind of person who could keep everything locked inside.
Being an extrovert, silence never sat well with her. Thoughts needed air. Feelings needed words. So that evening, after hours of pretending she was fine, she picked up her phone and called him.
"Hey… what's up?" she said, keeping her tone light, normal—as if nothing was wrong.
They spoke about small things first. Work. The day. Random office nonsense. She didn't accuse him. Didn't sound bitter. With no intention to hurt him, she gently told him about the rumours she had heard.
There was a pause on the other end.
Then he asked, quietly, "After hearing all this… you're still willing to talk to me? You don't believe it?"
She didn't rush her answer.
"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "But I want to keep talking."
Another pause.
"You like me, right?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
And it was true—but not in the way he might have assumed.
In her heart, she knew something important. The romantic feeling—the kind that sweeps you away—hadn't arrived yet. Not fully. Not completely. What existed was something steadier, quieter.
Respect.
Respect for who he was, for how he carried himself, for the way he had noticed her when no one else had. She liked him, but she wasn't in love—not yet.
And she didn't know whether that made things safer…
or more dangerous.