The secret stayed safe, but not by accident. It stayed safe because we became experts at the lie. We were like two spies operating in broad daylight, navigating a minefield of corporate etiquette and prying eyes. Every interaction was a calculated move; every word spoken in public was filtered through a mesh of professional detachment.
Every time my phone buzzed in my pocket with a message that made my heart race, I trained myself not to react. If Adi sent something sweet, funny, or devastatingly charming, I would count to ten, staring intensely at a row of tax figures until my pulse leveled out. I learned how to smile with just my eyes—a tiny, internal glimmer—so that no one seeing my face from across the room would notice the shift in my expression. I was becoming a master of the blank slate.
The Art of the Mask
Adi was even better at it. In the office, he treated me with a detached, clinical fairness that was almost frustrating. He was the "Strict Manager" through and through. He would critique my marketing reports in front of the senior clerks with a straight face, pointing out a misplaced comma or a conservative projection with a coldness that made my skin prickle.
Then, two minutes after I'd slunk back to my desk, my phone would vibrate.
Adi [11:14 AM]: I hated saying that. Your analysis was actually brilliant—easily the best work this branch has seen in years. But the senior staff was watching like hawks. I had to look like I was being tough on the intern. I'll make it up to you later with a proper apology.
One Tuesday, the tension reached a peak. We were in the small breakroom together—a cramped space filled with the scent of roasted beans and industrial cleaner. For thirty seconds, the door was closed, and it was just the two of us. The air was heavy, thick with the electric charge of all the things we couldn't say and the miles of distance we were forced to maintain. He reached for the coffee pot, and for a fleeting second, the rough fabric of his charcoal sleeve brushed against my bare arm.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. The touch felt like a live wire.
"The ledger looks good, Miss Alfha," he said loudly, his voice projected for the benefit of anyone standing in the hallway or lingering by the water cooler. Then, leaning in just enough so that his words were a mere vibration against the shell of my ear: "I miss you so much it hurts to look at you."
I kept my eyes fixed on my ceramic cup, my fingers tightening around the handle. "Thank you, Sir. I'll have the rest of the projections on your desk by five."
I walked out of that breakroom with my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. We were getting away with it. The office staff remained in their state of "no guts"—they suspected, they whispered in the elevators, they shared knowing glances when we both happened to be late for a meeting—but they had no proof. And we gave them none. We were the perfect professionals.
The Midnight Reward
The safety of the secret meant that when 6:00 PM finally arrived and I walked out of those heavy glass doors into the humid Ahmedabad evening, the release was incredible. The transition from the stiff, formal "Sir" to the man who checked if I reached home safely was the highlight of my existence. The moment I stepped onto the bus, the "Ice Queen" melted, and Alfha returned.
Me [6:15 PM]: I'm on the bus. You were extra mean today, Mr. Manager. "Miss Alfha, this font is too small"? Really? That's the best critique you could come up with?
Adi [6:17 PM]: I had to find something to complain about. You're too efficient; you don't give me enough ammunition. If I didn't find a flaw, I would have just stood there staring at you for ten minutes until someone noticed. I'm doing us both a favor, though my conscience hates me for it.
Me [6:20 PM]: Whatever helps you sleep at night. I expect a much higher quality of fake criticism tomorrow. See you then, Sir.
Adi [6:21 PM]: Counting the hours until I can "professionally" ask you to come into my office again.
We were safe. We were winning. But in every story where a secret is kept this tight, the pressure eventually builds until the walls can no longer hold. You can't live in two worlds forever—the student and the intern, the lover and the employee—without them eventually colliding in a shower of sparks.
I looked out the bus window at the blurring city lights, wondering when the glass would finally crack.