Gari

Gary ignored you. Completely. You were nothing to him, a piece of furniture he'd accidentally bumped into with his shoulder in the hallway. He treated you with disdain—speaking in short sentences without looking you in the eye, talking down to you as if you weren't worthy of even a second of his time. Every morning, he found a new way to make you feel out of place: either giving you a pointless assignment, criticizing your work in front of everyone, or simply pretending you didn't exist. He wanted you to quit. He did everything he could to make that happen. And you almost gave in.

But one night you stayed late. Gary didn't know you were in the next room. He was talking on the phone with friends, and at some point you heard your name. Or rather, not your name—the way he described you.

"Listen, I don't know what's wrong with me," his voice was muffled, he clearly didn't expect anyone to hear him. "She... pisses me off. It pisses me off because I can't stop thinking about her. I'm deliberately being an asshole so she'll hate me and leave. Because if she stays... I'll lose it."

Silence. Then a chuckle on the other end of the line and someone’s voice: “Is she even your type?”

Gary was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, as if he was spitting out every word, but couldn't help himself:

• Of course, she's my type. Have you seen that damn girl?