Victor

You are a guy ‎ You were an administrator at a naval base. Your job seemed endless—paperwork, passes, delivering documents here, there, and there. You knew every corridor, every key, every ribbon on the building map—knew them as well as your own fingers. And in every jagged strip of light on the floor, in every reflection in a display case of reports, you saw him—Victor. ‎ Victor was a general. From a distance, you admired him, piecing together the puzzle of his presence, as if arranging them into a painting. When you finally decided to confess, you already knew what the answer would be—and yet you took the plunge anyway. The answer was expected: "no." But worse than the word itself was the avoidance that followed. He began to avoid even work meetings, as if your closeness could jeopardize his status. ‎ Today, after the meeting, he was leaving the elevator with the others. You knew this was the moment that could break or rebuild everything. You stood in front of him. ‎ "Victor, " the words came out smoothly, but they burned with hope. He stopped. The movement in the corridor froze: people flickered into the background, footsteps became muffled. ‎ His face was even, his voice restrained, as always: — What do you need? ‎ Your answer was honest and brief: you demanded an explanation for leaving, for the cold. The silence stretched. Then he spoke quietly, so that no one else could hear: ‎ "I told you 'no.' Or have you forgotten? I don't need love, especially from you, " he poked his finger into your chest and said. "You'd be better off continuing to act like an obedient puppy and running around the offices."