The office felt colder than usual that morning, or maybe it was just him. Mr. Harrison sat behind his desk, perfectly poised, reviewing documents with that same calm, infuriating composure that had haunted my dreams for three years. The faint hum of the air conditioner, the soft click of his pen, even the distant murmur of colleagues in the next cubicle seemed amplified in that room. It was as if the universe had conspired to make every sound, every movement, a reminder of him.
I straightened my blazer, took a deep breath, and reminded myself: this isn't about him. This is about me. My career. My life. Keep your distance, Emily. Professional distance.
I smoothed down the front of my skirt and adjusted my hair, catching a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of the window. My reflection stared back, wide-eyed and slightly tense, lips pressed in a thin line. I tried to remind myself that I was here on my own terms. That I had earned this position, this space, without his approval, without him noticing. But the truth was, every nerve in my body was alert, on edge, aware of the subtle tension between us that had never really gone away.
"Good morning, Emily," he said, not looking up from the papers. His voice was low, precise, measured. Nothing in it betrayed recognition, guilt, or anything.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrison," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral was professional. But my stomach clenched at the formal address. The first time I had called him that formally, I had not expected it to sting like this. I had thought the words would be easy, routine. Instead, they felt like stepping onto a tightrope stretched thin between past humiliation and present control.
He finally lifted his gaze, his eyes scanning me with that same sharpness I remembered from the first day we met. Not soft. Not warm. Just assessing. Like I was a project he needed to evaluate. And in a way, maybe I was. Every step I took, every move I made, seemed to be under his invisible microscope.
"Here's your first task," he said, sliding a stack of files across the desk. "Review these and prepare a summary by end of day. Accuracy matters."
I nodded, forcing the polite, professional smile I had practiced in front of my bathroom mirror for weeks. "Understood." But my mind was not on the task. It was on him. On how effortlessly he commanded the room, the way he expected obedience without question. The way he had always made me feel like I did not measure up even when I tried my hardest. Even when I thought I had proven myself, proven my worth, he always found a way to make me question it again.
I picked up the first file, forcing myself to focus. The papers felt unusually heavy in my hands, almost as if they carried the weight of every memory we had shared, every humiliation, every unspoken word. The sound of paper turning and his occasional keystrokes filled the silence between us, heavy and deliberate. Every glance he gave me or did not give me felt loaded. Like he was testing me. Or testing himself.
I reminded myself again: professional distance. This was a job. He is my boss. Nothing more. Nothing personal. Nothing that would make my pulse spike or my hands tremble. Nothing that would let him see that, underneath this carefully curated exterior, I was still unsettled.
Yet, as the morning stretched on, I could not help but notice the small things. The way he reviewed my notes with careful precision, the subtle nod when something was correct, the quiet acknowledgment that I was competent.
Competent enough to make him take notice. Competent enough to remind him of the woman he had left at the altar.
And that was exactly the problem.
I shook my head slightly, trying to dislodge the memory, the sting, the anger that always seemed to bubble just beneath the surface when I was near him. My eyes returned to the documents in front of me, scanning the pages, noting errors and inconsistencies with a rigor that made me almost forget where I was. Almost.
A sudden click of his pen made me flinch. He had been watching me. I could feel it in the way his eyes lingered, not in a way that suggested warmth, but in that precise, analytical way that made me feel exposed. My heart beat a little faster. I focused harder on the papers, letting my pen scratch across the page in neat, organized notes. Every scribble, every correction, was my way of proving first to myself, then to him, that I belonged here. That I could handle this.
And yet, there was an undeniable tension. A subtle electricity that threaded through the air every time we made eye contact or when he leaned slightly forward to examine a sheet of my work. I hated that it affected me. Hated that it made me self-conscious. Hated that I remembered every look, every slight tilt of his head, every glance that had haunted my thoughts for years.
I glanced at the clock. Hours had passed, but it felt like mere minutes. The office noise faded into a background hum. Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to synchronize with my heartbeat. Time warped strangely in his presence, slow, heavy, charged with anticipation I refused to admit.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, closing my eyes for just a moment, and repeated the mantra that had kept me sane through every awkward encounter and sleepless night: professional distance. Breathe. Focus. Work. Do not think about the past. Do not think about him.
Opening my eyes, I returned to the papers. But my mind wandered inevitably through a minefield of memories. The wedding day. The waiting room. His absence. The whispers, the judgment, the confusion. How had someone so precise, so careful, so controlled, abandoned me so completely in that moment? And now, here he was, unchanged, perfect in his control, and I was forced to measure myself against him every day.
I flipped another page. The edges were crisp under my fingers. My handwriting neat, my observations meticulous. I reminded myself that this work was mine. That my diligence, my attention to detail, my resilience, had gotten me here. That he did not define me, no matter how much my body tensed or my heart betrayed me.
Hours passed. The morning dissolved into early afternoon. The office lights hummed steadily above, the scent of paper and coffee mingling faintly in the air. I noticed small details I had never observed before. The way his tie was always perfectly straight, the slight crease in his forehead when concentrating, the faint scar above his wrist that peeked out when he rolled up his sleeves. Small things. Irrelevant things. Yet they anchored me to him, reminding me that he existed outside the memory of humiliation. That he was real. And infuriatingly human.
Finally, I set down my pen and leaned back in my chair. My summary was complete, precise, and professional. My body ached with the effort of keeping emotions in check, of maintaining the perfect balance of distance and focus. And when I handed it to him, I saw that small, almost imperceptible nod of approval again.
"Good work," he said, his voice unchanged, calm, precise. He looked at the papers, then back at me. Nothing more. But I felt it anyway, the acknowledgment, the silent recognition that I had met his standard. That I had, in some way, made him notice me again.
And with that, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease just slightly. Not entirely. Not enough to forget the past, or to pretend it did not sting to see him again in the flesh. But enough to remind myself why I was here. Why I needed to survive, to thrive, in a world that included him without letting him control my narrative.
Professional distance. I whispered it to myself once more. Not as a warning. Not as a rule. But as a shield.
Because the office might be cold, and he might be infuriating, and the memories might claw at me relentlessly. But I was stronger than the past. Stronger than the sting of his absence. Stronger than the invisible weight of his gaze. And I would prove it, not to him, but to myself.
I picked up the next file. The stack of papers might have been intimidating, but I felt a spark of determination ignite within me. Every page I read, every note I took, was a step toward reclaiming control. Toward creating a life that was mine, complete with him in it or not.
Professional distance, yes. But perhaps, just perhaps, it was possible to walk that fine line without losing myself entirely in the process.