**How I Hated Her… And Loved Her**
A slightly crumpled sheet of paper lay in the bottom drawer of her desk, carefully tucked beneath a resignation letter. I picked it up—and something inside me faltered. My heart whispered: this wasn’t just paper. It was a message. Meant for me alone.
I remembered childhood—playing spies with the lads, writing secret notes in lemon juice or milk, then holding them over the hob to reveal hidden words. And didn’t I, didn’t *Emily* and I, once talk of such things? Chatting over lunch breaks like I wasn’t her boss but just some bloke gazing at her with lovesick eyes.
I couldn’t wait till the end of the workday. Rushed home, hands trembling, turned on the hob, held the paper to the flame… And there they were. Letters etched in fire, simple and raw.
*”If you’re reading this, you’ve remembered how to uncover the unseen. Then not all is lost. But know this—when you belittled me, you crushed everything I felt for you. You relished my pain, and it pleased you. You forgot that behind cold detachment beats a human heart. Yes, I could’ve retaliated. But then I’d have become you. And I—am not you. Goodbye. Don’t look for me.”*
I read it five times. Each pass cut deeper. The words seemed branded onto my chest. One question echoed: *Why had I hated her so? What for?*
When Emily first joined the department, it was like someone threw open the windows—sunlight, the scent of salt air, wild roses flooding in. I wasn’t one for romance, but that day… that day, I understood what it meant to lose your head. She wasn’t polished or picture-perfect. But she had *life*. A glow. Something that made men turn and left me burning inside.
I’d known women. Plenty. Well-groomed, flirtatious, their voices laced with promise. I could read them, predict their whims. And I got what I wanted—dates, bouquets, kisses, then goodbye. It suited me. I kept my distance, always in control.
But with Emily… I wanted to press my face into her shoulder, listen to her breathe, thread my fingers through her hair and forget everything. Be a boy again, not the boss. Just a man willing to trade ambition for the chance to stay close.
She was my subordinate. Dependable. Quiet. Sharp. I entrusted her with the toughest projects. She never faltered, never complained. I could shout—she wouldn’t argue. Yet her silence wounded more than words. There was a strength in it that made me ache.
And so I belittled her. Again and again. Needled, pushed, provoked. Wanted to break her, just to play the hero who’d piece her back together. I longed to see her cry, imagined holding her hands, murmuring, *”Sorry, I’ve been a fool…”* But she never wept. Never left. She endured, and it made her stronger. Me? Smaller.
I brought her chocolates. Caught her eye. Tossed offhand compliments. Hoped she’d see: I wasn’t just her superior. I was a man who wanted to lose himself in her.
Once, I approached—wrapped my arms around her. Gently but deliberate. She pulled away, met my gaze. No anger. No fear. Nothing. And I felt *seen*. Stripped bare. It undid me.
I couldn’t admit we were equals. I had to dominate. Diminish. Tame. Did everything to convince myself she was nothing—while I burned.
Tried to make her jealous. Phoned other women, laughed too loud. Took them to lunch in front of her. She never flinched. Never reacted. That infuriated me most.
I was certain she felt it too. That she *wanted* me—my voice, my touch, my hands. She just hadn’t surrendered. But she would. Eventually.
I knew she needed the job. So she’d stay. Endure. And one day, she’d be mine. Wasn’t I accustomed to getting what I wanted?
Then Friday came. She didn’t show. No warning. Phone dead. Email inactive. Project abandoned. I stood there, alone, rage simmering. Waited for her to return, explain. She never did.
Like she’d dissolved. Like smoke. A dream half-remembered at dawn, shattered by breakfast. She left—quietly, sharply, with her pride intact.
And I… The man who thought he controlled everything, was left with emptiness. A letter holding the truth. She’d been stronger. Cleaner. Truer. And she walked away first.
Now I miss her gaze. Her silence. Even her stubbornness. I hated her. Or perhaps… I just never learned how to love.
