HOW I HATED HER…
A slightly crumpled sheet lay in her desk drawer—right next to her resignation letter. A strange feeling settled in my chest, as if that scrap of paper hadn’t been left there by chance. As if it had been waiting just for me.
I picked it up, and suddenly, childhood came rushing back. Back in Manchester, my mates and I used to play spies, writing secret messages in milk on paper, then reading them by holding them over a flame. Irene and I had laughed about those games once, sipping coffee, chatting about nothing important.
I barely made it through the workday before bolting home like a madman. My heart pounded—not from fear, no, but from anticipation. I turned on the hob, held the paper over the heat, and… there they were. Words, just like when we were kids. Only this time, it was a painful, grown-up truth.
*”If you’re reading this, I wasn’t wrong. You remembered. You figured it out. It all could’ve been different. But know this—when you humiliated me, you killed everything I ever felt for you. I think you even enjoyed tormenting me. Maybe that’s all you’re capable of.
Someone hurt you once, and now you break those who won’t fight back. Did you think I couldn’t retaliate? I could. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.
You can win a battle but lose the war. Don’t look for me. Goodbye. — I.”*
I sat there, frozen. Why? Why had I loved her so violently, so desperately… and hated her just as much?
She’d appeared in the office out of nowhere. She walked in, and suddenly, the dreary third-floor office in that aging London business park was flooded with light. The stale air turned fresh, smelling of sea salt and morning dew.
She wasn’t stunning—not a model. But there was something about her that threw me off balance. I was no stranger to women—bold, glamorous, understated—yet with her, everything that usually drew me in just… didn’t.
I’d been spoiled for choice. Blondes, redheads, brunettes—they came and went. Dates, flowers, fleeting romances, then back to freedom. I chose. I controlled. I never begged—I took.
But Irene…
I wanted to bury my face in her lap, breathe in the scent of her skin, run my fingers through those blonde strands, trace her wrists, her throat. I wanted to hear her laugh, watch her bite her lip when she was nervous.
She worked under me—literally and otherwise. Not the star of the team, but when a tough job came up? I gave it to her, knowing it’d be done. On time, without fuss.
Then, somehow, I started enjoying shouting at her. Her presence alone seemed to invite cruelty. She’d shrink, all fragile and defenceless, and in those moments, I felt like a god. If she’d just cried, if she’d snapped—I’d have softened. I’d have comforted her. Maybe even changed.
But she never broke. Never complained. Never showed weakness. And that only infuriated me more. I tried to provoke a reaction—left chocolates on her desk, gave trinkets, layered my compliments with barbs. She saw right through me. I knew she did. And I swore she felt something too.
Sometimes, I thought a single touch would stop the world. So one day, I risked it. I hugged her. Gently, almost tenderly. And she… pulled away. Just looked at me. Silent. No reproach, no drama.
Worse than a slap.
She was my equal. A challenge. But I refused to admit it. I needed to feel superior. I couldn’t bear being vulnerable. Not with her.
I watched her. How she handled pressure. How she solved problems. The others fancied her too—too much. One even asked her to dinner. I saw it all. It made my blood boil.
So I played jealous. Flirted loudly on the phone where she could hear, laughed, made plans—all for show. And her? She just withdrew. Not a glance, not a flinch. Nothing.
I was certain—no, I *knew*—she felt it too. There had to be something. I could sense it. I was sure she’d stay. That she’d put up with it. That eventually, she’d give in.
But she didn’t. She just… left. No scenes, no screaming. Just gone.
On Friday, she didn’t show. Phone off. Email locked. The project she’d been working on? Left unfinished. I was left looking like a fool—to the bosses, to myself.
She vanished. Like smoke. Like fog. Untouchable. Ephemeral. Mine, and yet never mine.
I thought I had control. That I could force things, twist them to my will.
I was wrong.
Turns out, it happens like that too.
