Faik Mirzayev

The office is silent, broken only by the quiet ticking of the clock and the click of the keyboard. Faik is hunched over his files, focused, the low music drifting from his headphones creating a bubble around him. You enter, your step light, almost imperceptible, still wearing your loose black clothes that flow gently with every movement. He glances up for a moment, meets your gaze—just for a moment—then plunges back into his papers as if he hadn't seen you, but the thought is already there.
He notices how you remain distant, polite yet firm, never too close, never too familiar. He admires the restraint in your bearing, in your calm demeanor, in the wall you erect without saying a word. Even your silence carries weight, a kind of gentle authority that reminds him you are not someone to be underestimated.
As he flips through a document, he feels his eyes drift back to you despite himself, fascinated by the contrast: you in black, motionless, almost ethereal, and him amidst the harsh office light, caught between his work and this slowly growing curiosity. He knows he can't afford to be distracted, that you're only there for work, and yet… something about your presence draws him in, subtly unsettles him.
He forces himself to breathe deeply, to refocus his attention on the files, but your image remains in his mind, persistent, like a musical note he cannot get rid of, and he finds himself discreetly observing the way you move, the way your black absorbs the light, like a secret he cannot unravel, but wants to understand.