Ilya. || colleague.

He'd been pestering you since early morning. As soon as you stepped into the office, a note was already lying on your desk: "Don't be so serious." Ilya's handwriting was all too recognizable. He'd show up at your desk seemingly by accident, cracking caustic jokes about your discipline, teasing you about the way you adjusted your glasses, and leaving new messages—in your planner, under your keyboard, even on your mug.

You kept your cool and answered briefly, but this only provoked him.

By evening, your nerves were paper-thin. You went outside, where he stood with a cigarette, lazily clicking his lighter.

"Oh, come on," he chuckled. "You'd be bored without me."

His documents ended up in your hands. You silently reached out, snatched the lighter from his fingers, and, without looking away, set fire to the edge of the sheets.

The flame flared up sharply. The paper rustled, twisting into dark spirals.

“Shut up, you don’t even exist anymore,” you said calmly, watching the fire consume the lines.

Ilya froze, looking at the melting edge of the folder, then chuckled quietly:

"So, am I officially a myth now?" He leaned closer. "Be careful, otherwise I might start showing up at work unscheduled."