The glass façade of the Orion Creative building caught the morning sun like a mirror, forcing Adrian Lee to squint as he stood at the entrance. It was taller than any office he'd worked in before, sleek and modern, with a lobby that smelled faintly of fresh coffee and polished wood.
He tugged at his tie, though it didn't feel any looser. First days always did this to him—an unshakable knot of nerves that sat somewhere between his stomach and his throat. New names to remember, new workflows to learn, the silent challenge of figuring out where he belonged.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a brushed-steel interior and a mirrored wall. Adrian stepped inside, hit the button for the tenth floor, and caught his own reflection. The tie looked fine. The hair was fine. But the faint tension in his jaw betrayed him.
As the elevator climbed, the city unfolded in fragments through the side panel of glass. A sprawling grid of streets, morning traffic inching along, sunlight glinting off skyscraper windows—it all felt like a living thing, busy and unaware of him. He exhaled slowly, telling himself it was just another job.
When the doors parted again, he stepped out into the heart of the office floor. The air was alive with the low hum of phones, the clack of keyboards, and the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere across the room.
To his right, a wall of windows poured daylight over neat rows of desks. To his left, glass-walled meeting rooms stood like transparent cubes, each filled with people talking over open laptops. A faint aroma of brewed coffee drifted from the break room in the corner.
"Adrian Lee?" A warm voice pulled him from his observations. The receptionist—smiling, clipboard in hand—offered a quick handshake before pointing him toward a section near the center.
He started walking, weaving between desks, mentally noting the faces he passed. Some looked up with polite curiosity; others stayed locked into their screens. He'd barely had time to wonder who he'd be working with when a familiar name in his head suddenly turned into a person in front of him.
Emily Carter.
She was leaning over a desk, explaining something to a colleague, a faint crease between her brows as she pointed at the screen. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught the loose strands of her hair, turning them into a soft halo. Adrian had to blink, not because the light was too bright, but because the sight seemed almost unreal.
Emily Carter.
It had been years. University lectures, hurried coffees before exams, those strange in-between moments where friendship teetered on the edge of something else—all of it came rushing back before he could stop it.
She looked… exactly the same. And yet, different. The same gentle shape to her smile, the same poised confidence in the way she stood, but there was something new in her eyes, like she had been through storms and learned how to carry them quietly.
Her colleague noticed Adrian first, gesturing toward him. Emily turned. For a second—just a fraction of one—her expression froze. Then the smallest smile curved her lips.
"Adrian?" she said, as though tasting the name to see if it still fit him.
He found himself smiling back. "Emily."
They stood like that for a moment, the noise of the office fading into something distant. It wasn't awkward, not exactly, but there was a quiet heaviness, like they both knew too much had happened in the time between.
"You work here now?" she asked, taking a step closer.
"Just started," he said, holding up the visitor badge clipped to his shirt. "Apparently, they think I can design things without breaking the internet."
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that didn't carry far but lingered pleasantly. "Well, you always were good with deadlines. And terrible with cables."
"Still am," he admitted. "Some things don't change."
Their eyes met again. He wanted to say something—ask her about the years apart, if she still took her coffee black, if she still got lost in bookstores for hours—but the receptionist called his name, reminding him of the orientation schedule.
"Looks like you're busy," Emily said, glancing toward the meeting room.
"Yeah. But… we'll catch up?"
Her smile softened, and she nodded. "We will."
As he walked away, Adrian felt the quiet echo of her presence at his back. He wasn't sure if it was nostalgia or something entirely new, but it stayed with him long after he took his seat.
Adrian's new desk sat by the window, overlooking a slice of the city skyline. The glass was spotless, but a faint reflection showed him the small, slightly nervous smile he hadn't quite shaken off since seeing Emily.
His new manager, a cheerful man named Daniel, gave him the tour—a maze of glass partitions, hanging plants, and the low hum of keyboards. People greeted him politely, some barely glancing up, others offering brief smiles before returning to their screens.
Daniel pointed out the essentials. "Coffee machine's down the hall, printer's on the left, and if you hear someone cursing loudly, it's probably IT. Don't take it personally."
Adrian chuckled, but his attention kept flickering toward the far side of the floor, where Emily sat with her back partly turned. He told himself it was just curiosity, nothing more. But every now and then, she shifted just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her profile—the soft focus in her eyes when she read something, the way she twirled a pen without noticing.
At his desk, he unpacked his notebook, a pair of headphones, and a small cactus from his bag. It was his usual "first day" ritual—a way to claim the space as his own. But today, the ritual felt different, as though the air itself carried a quiet anticipation.
He caught himself staring out the window, his thoughts slipping back to university days—late-night study sessions, her teasing him for overthinking everything, the way her laughter could pull him out of any bad mood. Those memories felt close enough to touch, yet miles away.
A soft tap on his desk pulled him back. A teammate named Clara smiled at him. "Need help setting up your system?"
He smiled back. "I think I can manage. But I'll yell if I break something."
She nodded and walked off, but Adrian noticed Emily had glanced over briefly during the exchange. Their eyes didn't meet this time, but he felt the weight of her presence, like a quiet rhythm just beneath the noise of the office.
By the time Daniel handed him his login credentials and left him to work, Adrian was half-reading the onboarding materials, half-wondering when—or if—Emily might walk past again.
He told himself it was just the novelty of seeing an old friend. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.
The company cafeteria was a mix of glass walls and warm wood, sunlight pooling across the tables. The scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee filled the air, blending with the quiet hum of chatter.
Adrian stood with his tray, scanning for a seat, when he heard her voice.
"Looking for somewhere to sit, or just inspecting the architecture?" Emily was a few steps away, a salad bowl in hand, her expression somewhere between teasing and curious.
He smiled. "Bit of both. I forgot how intimidating corporate cafeterias can be."
She tilted her head toward a corner table by the window. "Come on. I'll protect you from the lunchtime politics."
They sat across from each other, the city skyline stretching out behind her. For a moment, neither spoke—just the quiet clink of cutlery, the comfortable weight of being in each other's company again.
"So," she said eventually, "what have you been doing all these years? Disappearing without warning is still your specialty?"
He chuckled softly. "I didn't disappear. I… just moved on. Or tried to."
Emily's gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary, as if she could read between the lines. "Tried to. That sounds… complicated."
"It was," he admitted. "Life happened. Jobs, failed projects, a few mistakes. The usual."
Her smile was faint, but her eyes softened. "Sounds like you've been human."
They ate in companionable silence for a while. The light shifted slightly, casting a warm glow across her face, and Adrian found himself studying her—noticing the way she always tapped her fork twice before taking a bite, the way her hair caught the light.
She caught him looking. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just… you haven't changed."
She arched an eyebrow. "That's either a compliment or a sign I need to rethink my wardrobe."
"It's a compliment," he said quickly. "I mean, you're still… you."
Something unspoken lingered between them after that. Not the rushed, nervous energy of their university days, but something steadier—like they'd both lived enough to understand the value of quiet moments.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, then sighed. "Back to work."
Adrian stood as she did. "Thanks for… you know. Letting me sit."
Her lips curved into that small, familiar smile. "Thanks for not spilling coffee on me this time."
As they parted ways, Adrian couldn't help but feel that lunch had been more than just catching up. It had been a reminder—gentle, unexpected—that some connections don't fade. They just wait.
The office felt different after lunch—not louder, not busier, just… different. Maybe it was Adrian's mood.
He sat at his desk, eyes on his monitor, fingers moving over the keyboard without much intention. Every now and then, his gaze drifted toward the far side of the floor, where Emily's desk was a small island of order in a sea of corporate clutter.
From this angle, he could just see her profile—focused, brows slightly drawn, tapping her pen lightly against a notepad before typing something in quick, deliberate bursts. She always had that look when she was deep in thought.
A colleague leaned over Adrian's cubicle wall. "Hey, you coming to the 3 PM briefing?"
He blinked back into the present. "Yeah. Give me a minute."
But as the colleague walked off, Adrian found himself still watching Emily. She laughed at something her teammate said—head tilting just enough for her hair to fall over her shoulder—and he felt a pull, subtle but undeniable.
When the meeting finally began, Adrian arrived early enough to pick a seat across the table from her. She glanced up as he sat, a brief acknowledgment in her eyes, before returning to her laptop.
The presentation dragged on—charts, projections, more charts—but Adrian caught small moments. The way her fingers curled around her coffee cup, the quick note she scribbled in the margins, the faint trace of a smile when someone cracked a half-decent joke.
Halfway through, their eyes met. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough for him to feel that strange rush in his chest again. She didn't look away immediately, either.
When the meeting ended, Emily gathered her notes. "Heading out?" he asked casually as they left the room together.
"Back to the desk. I've got a deadline."
"Need help?"
Her smile was polite, but there was warmth behind it. "Not unless you've suddenly become an expert in urban housing policy."
"I could try," he said, grinning.
She shook her head, amused. "You never change."
They reached the elevator. A brief silence filled the space between the metallic doors closing and the descent beginning. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't exactly easy either—like both were aware of the conversation they weren't having.
As the doors opened, she stepped out first. "See you around, Adrian."
He stayed in the elevator for a moment longer after she walked away, as if letting the distance stretch, holding onto the image of her walking down the hall, her stride purposeful, her presence leaving a quiet echo behind.