CHAPTER 4– PROXIMITY
783 Words
By Friday I had a new desk.
Not my desk. Not the one I had spent two years slowly making mine — the cactus on the corner, the mug Priya bought me as a joke, the little stack of blueprints I always swore I’d organize but never did.
That desk was gone.
This one sat in the east wing.
The “good” wing. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Quiet that felt expensive instead of empty. Offices that belonged to people who made decisions instead of waiting for them.
Richard delivered the news himself, standing in my doorway like he expected gratitude.
“Hargrove wants the project team centralized,” he said. “Easier coordination. You’ll move Thursday.”
“Move where?”
“East wing. Dedicated space for the project.”
I waited a beat. “Who else is moving?”
“Marcus. Jin from interiors. Two juniors.”
He hesitated slightly. “And Hargrove will be on site three days a week. He prefers being close during early development.”
Close.
I wrote that word down after he left. Didn’t think much of it after that.
That was a lie.
The east wing desk was better in every way that mattered on paper.
More light. Better chair. Cleaner view of the city. Everything arranged neatly, like order was part of the design philosophy.
But it still didn’t feel like mine.
I kept forgetting small things — my pen, my notes, the cactus I’d left behind. Priya told me I was being dramatic. I told her I wasn’t.
By Monday, I’d settled into a rhythm anyway.
Meetings at nine. Site discussions at eleven. Lunch at my desk because the kitchen in this wing felt too quiet, too full of people who actually belonged here.
And Steven came in on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.
I didn’t plan to notice that.
But I did.
Tuesdays he came early. Always before eight. Same coffee. Same routine.
Wednesdays he arrived later, sometimes with people — lawyers, investors, once a woman in a red coat who didn’t stay long.
Thursdays he stayed late. I knew because I was often still there too, pretending I wasn’t watching when his office light stayed on after everyone else left.
I told myself it was just routine.
Eventually, I stopped bothering to say that part out loud.
It was a Wednesday when I found it.
We were moving fast on the project — faster than anything I’d worked on before. Too fast, honestly, but nobody seemed concerned.
I was looking for the preliminary brief Richard’s assistant mentioned earlier. Digital files didn’t have it, so I went to the shared cabinet outside the coordinator’s desk.
Which happened to be near Steven’s office.
His office door was open. Empty.
Or so I thought.
I found the file quickly. Closed the drawer. Turned.
That’s when I saw it.
A folder sitting on the edge of his desk.
Plain. Manilla.
My name on it.
Anna Voss.
I didn’t move right away.
It felt… wrong, just sitting there like that. Not hidden. Not secured. Just placed in plain view like it belonged there.
I stepped closer.
Didn’t touch it at first. Just looked.
My personnel file should have been locked in HR. Sixth floor. Access restricted.
This wasn’t that.
It looked thicker. Heavier. More pages than a normal file should have.
I reached out before I fully decided to.
Just touched it.
Nothing else.
Then—
“I thought I’d find you here.”
His voice came from behind me.
I turned.
Steven was standing in the doorway.
No noise. No warning.
Just there.
Coffee in one hand. Suit as usual. Calm as ever.
His eyes moved briefly to the folder under my
fingers.
Then back to me.
I pulled my hand away.
“I was looking for the brief,” I said.
“Third drawer,” he replied. “It was misfiled.”
He walked past me like nothing had happened, set his coffee down, and picked up the folder.
My folder.
Moved it slightly to the side of his desk. Casual.
Like it was just another document he’d finished with for now.
“Thanks,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
He didn’t respond.
I left after that.
Walked back to my desk.
Opened the brief.
Didn’t read a word for a long time.
He had my file.
That was the only thought that stayed.
Not just the file — something more. The weight of it told me that much. Too many pages for it to be just work records.
I thought about the flowers.
The card.
The note.
And then I stopped thinking too hard about it.
Which didn’t help at all.
- Writer
