Chapter 1 — What About Me?
Ian liked to think he handled loneliness with professionalism.
He paid his bills on time.
He folded his laundry before it formed a political faction on the chair.
He meal-prepped.
Meal-prepped.
He owned matching glass containers.
He did not drunk-text former situationships.
He did not spiral at weddings.
He did not post cryptic quotes about timing.
He was not lonely.
He was simply… observing a statistical imbalance.
Specifically: the statistical imbalance of Horizon Media’s third floor, where couples appeared to be multiplying like a well-funded documentary on mating season.
Ian stood in the creative lounge, arms folded, watching Daniel adjust his girlfriend’s scarf.
Not dramatically.
Not passionately.
Just—absentmindedly.
Like he had done it a thousand times.
The scarf was already fine.
It did not need adjusting.
Ian narrowed his eyes.
“Can you not?” he asked.
Daniel blinked. “Not what?”
“Whatever that is.”
“That is a scarf.”
“That is intimacy,” Ian corrected.
Across from him, Mira burst out laughing. “You’re actually offended.”
“I am not offended,” Ian said smoothly. “I am fatigued.”
“By scarves?”
“By proximity-based happiness.”
Jun leaned against the counter, sipping iced coffee like a man watching a live sitcom. “You’re thirty-four.”
“Thank you,” Ian replied flatly. “I had forgotten.”
“You’re stable. Employed. Moderately attractive.”
“Moderately?”
“Above average in good lighting.”
Mira waved a hand. “You could just date.”
Ian inhaled slowly, the way he did before correcting a flawed campaign proposal.
“I will not,” he said, “be set up.”
“No one said set up,” Jun replied. “We’re saying… explore.”
“I do not explore. I evaluate.”
“Dating apps?”
“No.”
“Blind date?”
“Not happening.”
“Speed dating?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Someone from another department?”
Ian straightened. “I refuse to weaponize hierarchy for romance.”
“You wouldn’t weaponize hierarchy.”
“That’s the point. It would feel coercive.”
Mira tilted her head. “So what do you want?”
Ian leaned back, gaze distant, already constructing a PowerPoint in his mind titled Strategic Romantic Acquisition.
“I want timing.”
Jun groaned quietly.
“I want inevitability,” Ian continued. “Something organic. Not curated. Not algorithmically assigned. I want—”
“A meet-cute,” Mira supplied.
“Yes,” Ian said immediately, pointing at her. “A meet-cute.”
Jun stared at him. “You work twelve-hour days.”
“I am available.”
“You go home and read market analysis.”
“That is recreational.”
“You once described quarterly projections as soothing.”
“They are.”
Mira crossed her arms. “You want fate.”
“I do.”
“But fate doesn’t work in corporate media.”
“It can.”
“When?”
Ian gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “In transitional spaces. Hallways. Elevators. Over coffee. During shared deadline-induced suffering.”
Jun leaned forward. “So if someone ran into you and spilled something, that would count?”
Ian considered it carefully.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Spill quality.”
The lounge door slid open.
And something streaked past the glass wall.
All three of them froze.
It happened too fast to process fully.
A blur.
A tower of papers leaning at an angle that suggested betrayal.
Arms flailing with optimism disproportionate to physics.
Then—
THUD.
Silence.
Jun slowly turned toward the hallway.
“…What was that?”
CRASH.
Metal scraped tile.
“I’M FINE.”
No one had asked.
Mira covered her mouth. “Is that the new junior?”
Another scattering of paper, more dramatic this time.
“I’M SO SORRY—WAIT—”
Jun leaned sideways to peek through the glass. “There are documents everywhere.”
“Why are they airborne?” Mira whispered.
Ian remained standing, posture composed, but alert.
“Is someone injured?” he asked, already shifting into managerial triage mode.
“I think that’s Elise,” Mira said. “The new hire. HR mentioned her.”
“Which one?”
“The creative prodigy.”
Jun added, “…She's one of those overpowered game character who got nerfed with zero dex.”
Ian turned slowly. “Zero?”
“Zero zero.”
From the hallway:
“WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PAGES—”
A printer beeped with escalating indignation.
Ian pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This,” he said calmly, “is not fate.”
Jun grinned. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
A chair scraped violently.
“I DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH IT—”
Mira was fully laughing now. “She’s been like this all week.”
“How is she employed?” Ian asked.
“She’s brilliant,” Mira said. “Her concept decks are insane. Visual instincts? Top-tier.”
A stack of paper burst upward again like tragic confetti.
“HR said she’s unmatched creatively,” Jun added.
“Unmatched physically too,” Mira muttered.
Ian crossed his arms.
“Why is she running?”
“She always runs.”
“Why is she carrying that much?”
“She tries to be efficient.”
“Why is she arguing with the printer?”
Jun shrugged. “Maybe it started it.”
Another metallic clang.
“THE TRASH CAN MOVED—”
“It didn’t,” Jun whispered helpfully.
Ian exhaled slowly.
“This is a liability.”
“It’s destiny,” Jun countered.
“It is not destiny,” Ian replied evenly. “Destiny does not apologize to furniture.”
There was one final catastrophic rustle of paper.
Then—
SLAP.
Silence.
Ian stepped into the hallway.
He didn’t walk fully into the debris field.
He stopped at the perimeter.
Scattered documents.
A tipped chair.
A pen rolling with dramatic resignation.
And, crouched in the center of it all, was a small figure gathering papers with frantic determination.
He didn’t see her face clearly.
He saw motion.
Apology.
Sincerity.
“I’M SORRY,” she whispered to a potted plant. “I didn’t mean to bump you.”
Ian blinked once.
The plant was stationary.
He had questions.
He chose none of them.
He watched her stack the pages carefully—straightening edges, aligning corners—like the chaos had not originated from her own hands.
Efficient, even in disaster.
She paused, looked at the fallen chair.
“I respect you,” she told it softly.
Ian stared at the ceiling.
This was not cinematic timing.
This was operational risk.
He turned back toward the lounge.
“This year,” he declared solemnly, reclaiming his coffee, “will be my romantic era.”
Behind him—
CLANG.
Jun murmured, “That sounded like fate.”
Ian did not look back.
“That sounded like facilities.”
From down the hallway:
“Okay. Okay. We can fix this.”
Ian took a measured sip of coffee.
He wanted inevitability.
He wanted timing.
He wanted something cinematic.
He did not want—
“WHY ARE THERE STILL MORE—”
He closed his eyes briefly.
He did not meet Elise that day.
Elise, however, had already declared war on gravity, one office printer, a trash can, and an emotionally supportive plant.
Fate was not dramatic.
Fate was currently on her knees, reorganizing the floor with alarming optimism.
And Ian was absolutely certain it had nothing to do with him.
Absolutely certain.
