From the outside, we were the perfect picture of corporate discipline. I sat at my corner desk, my eyes glued to the ledger, my fingers typing out marketing reports with a speed that left no room for suspicion. Adi stayed behind his glass walls, his door closed, the "Strict Manager" persona firmly in place. To the senior staff, we were just a boss and his most efficient intern, two gears in a machine that never stopped grinding.
But under the desk, my phone was a glowing secret, a direct line to the man who was currently pretending I didn't exist.
Adi [1:45 PM]: That bun is a little too tight today. It makes you look like you're ready to fire me.
I felt a smile tugging at my lips, but I bit it down, forcing my face to remain a mask of neutral, professional focus. I didn't look up. I didn't even tilt my head toward the mahogany desk. I just kept typing with one hand while the other slipped into my lap to navigate the touch screen.
Me [1:47 PM]: Maybe I am. You were three minutes late to the floor this morning, Mr. Manager. Very unprofessional. I might have to report you to the regional office.
I could almost hear his low, rumbling chuckle through the frosted glass. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again, vibrating against my thigh like a heartbeat.
Adi [1:50 PM]: I was busy thinking about how much I like that shade of blue you're wearing. It matches the Ahmedabad sky after the rain. It's distracting me from these boring invoices. Come to think of it, everything about you is a distraction.
The Hidden Glances
This was our "new normal." It was a world lived in the margins of spreadsheets and meeting minutes. We would be in the middle of a serious staff meeting, Adi standing at the head of the long table discussing quarterly targets and logistics, and my phone would buzz in my pocket.
I'd have to keep a perfectly straight face, nodding as if I were absorbing his points on market penetration, while he looked directly at me. His expression would be cold and professional, but my pocket was burning with a message that read: "You're the only person in this room actually listening, and it's making me want to skip the rest of this meeting and take you for coffee."
It was a dangerous game. Every time a senior clerk walked past my desk to use the printer, I had to be lightning-fast, flipping my phone over or switching tabs on my laptop to a dense BBA research paper. The adrenaline of the secret was addictive, but the weight of the "Glass Fishbowl" was never far away.
The staff didn't say anything—not yet—but I could feel their curiosity ripening. They saw the way Adi's eyes would occasionally drift toward my desk when he thought he was unobserved. They saw the way I would suddenly flush pink for "no reason" while staring at a boring, black-and-white spreadsheet. The air between his office and my desk was charged with an invisible current, and everyone was starting to feel the static.
The Risk of the "Send" Button
One afternoon, emboldened by the silence of the office and the steady rhythm of our digital back-and-forth, I sent a message that was a bit too bold for a 19-year-old intern.
Me [3:15 PM]: If you don't stop staring at the back of my head through that glass, I'm going to make a massive mistake in this entry. And it'll be your fault when the audit fails.
Adi didn't text back.
Instead, the intercom on my desk buzzed with a sharp, electric hum. My heart nearly stopped, my pulse jumping into my throat. The entire floor went quiet for a second.
"Miss Alfha," his voice came through the speaker, crisp, authoritative, and completely devoid of the warmth from the texts. "I need those ledger entries now. Bring them into my office immediately for a signature."
The senior staff nearby glanced up, their eyes darting from the intercom to me. I stood up, my legs feeling a little like jelly, and gathered my papers with trembling hands. I smoothed my blue tunic and walked into his office, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind me.
The second the latch clicked, Adi looked up from his monitor. The "Strict Manager" mask didn't just slip; it vanished, replaced by a playful glint in his eyes that no one else in this building ever got to see. He leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his silver pen against the mahogany.
"You were saying something about a mistake, Miss Alfha?" he murmured, his voice dropping into that low register that made my knees weak.
"We're in the office, Adi," I whispered, though I couldn't stop the smile from breaking through my professional armor. "Someone is going to notice the timing of these texts and these 'emergency' meetings."
"Let them notice," he said softly, standing up and moving toward the edge of the desk. He didn't touch me, but he was close enough that I could smell the cedar of his cologne.
"As long as you keep texting me back, I don't care about the ledger. I don't even care about the audit. I just care about the girl in the blue tunic who thinks she can fire her boss."
I looked at the glass wall behind him, seeing the blurred shapes of my coworkers outside. We were a digital bridge in a world of physical barriers, and for now, that was enough.