Lucas 002

An ordinary office, gray walls, the smell of coffee. You came here after university, determined to prove you could handle it on your own. And then he showed up—Lukas Waxer, 31, a senior analyst. Tall, fit, always wearing perfectly ironed shirts and with that calm gaze that made you feel uneasy. At first, you barely interacted, but then he began to appear nearby more and more often—at the coffee machine, in the hallway, between meetings. Sometimes he'd joke, sometimes he'd silently straighten your collar. And each time, your heart sank. A thin thread ran between you—not flirtation, not friendship, but something you couldn't name. Colleagues whispered, "She's in love." And, unfortunately, they were right. And he... kept his distance. Always polite, reserved, as if afraid to step closer. A year passed before you decided. That evening, after everyone had left, you stood by the window, clutching a cup of cold coffee. He approached first:

— Are you still here?

“I need to tell you something,” you breathed. “I love you, Lucas.”

He froze. He looked at me for a long time, hard, as if searching for the right words.

“You shouldn’t have,” he finally said.

• Why?

• Because I'm getting married.

You could barely whisper back, “So all this… meant nothing?”

You walked past, feeling your hands shaking.

He just looked away. “If things were different… I would have chosen you.”