"Eh, Chloe. Why your face so black?"
My colleague's voice pierced the quiet thrum of my mind, yanking me back to reality.
I sighed. "My face was never white."
She laughed. "Smile a bit ma… that's why Samson not interested in you."
I flashed a sharp glare from the side of my eyes. Samson again. Arghh. Why are they still joking about me and Samson? It's not cute. It's not romantic. And it sure as hell isn't funny. I don't like it. No spark. No flutter. Just discomfort that crawls beneath the skin.
Another tiring day. Problems stacked like unread emails. Half of them still unanswered from last night—not because I forgot, but because I was letting my mind drift. Curled up on that thin mattress, wrapped in the warmth of fantasy. The feeling of being wanted still echoed in my chest this morning—a soft pulse, reminding me I'm alive. But duty pulls me back fast. It always does.
"Chloe, Chloe…"
"Yes, Ms Cassandra."
"Can you comb through this document and highlight anything that needs revision?"
"Okay, Ms Cassandra."
"Chloe, Chloe…"
"Yes?"
"Send a meeting invite to Mr. Teh and Mr. Johnson—Friday, 10 a.m."
"Okay."
"Chloe, Chloe…"
"Book me a flight to Kuala Lumpur next Thursday. I need to be there by 9 a.m."
Requests spill out like a never-ending voice note. By 5 p.m., I'm running on autopilot. Tidy the inbox. Click "shut down." Out the door.
And then—the jam.
No emotion. Just slow, inching traffic lit by red brake lights and fading patience. After seven years of this job, the monotony numbs you. The playlist shuffles. The steering wheel stays warm beneath my palms. And I just sit there. Suspended.
That's when the fantasy slips in.
What if my company was filming a new promotional video? What if Aston—from the BL drama—was now a rising actor? And what if I, by some twist of fate, was overseeing the interview?
Clipboard in hand. Eyeliner sharp. Blouse crisp. Hair pulled into a clean low bun. Not the type to giggle around celebrities—just someone who keeps the day flowing.
He'd walk in. White tee. Black slacks. That shy smile. The dimple.
I'd nod. Offer water. Ask if he's reviewed the lines. Cool. Professional. Untouchable.
He'd notice. Not just the way I looked—but the way I moved. How people deferred to me. The quiet force of someone who rarely asks for attention but commands it anyway.
Then my boss would say, "Chloe, can you sing a sample for them? We need someone to set the vibe."
I'd hesitate—just enough to seem humble.
Then I'd sing.
Soft. Clear. Unexpected.
Aston would blink. Lips slightly parted.
My boss would laugh. "Even the artist can't sing better than Chloe!"
I'd smile. Just with my eyes.
The traffic moved half a meter. My lips curled, slightly.
One hour in a jam. But in my head—a whole movie played.