I’m rather good at most things—charts, calculations, carpentry—but feelings have always been my Achilles’ heel. I could rebuild an engine blindfolded or draft a flawless report in under an hour, yet the moment it came to expressing my own emotions, I froze. All my articulate problem-solving gave way to stuttering silence. And that was fine—until I began to fall in love.

I first noticed it on a Tuesday afternoon. I sat at my desk in the marketing office, poring over the latest quarterly figures, when I felt the air shift. Normally I’d focus on column A, then column B, cross-checking until my eyes blurred. That day, though, my gaze kept drifting to her—the new intern, Eleanor.

She wasn’t simply bright; she was luminous. The way she explained campaign data to clients, her practised confidence, the gentle tilt of her head when she smiled—it unsettled me. My heartbeat accelerated at the mere sight of her. My chest pressed against my collarbone as if it, too, were trying to escape. I blinked away the dizziness and forced my focus back to the spreadsheet, but the numbers might as well have been scribbles.

Am I merely admiring her skill, or is this something more?

At home that evening, I rehearsed countless scenarios. I practised small talk in the mirror: “Hello, Eleanor. Did you have a productive day?” Each time I stumbled.

My reflection stared back, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together in mockery. The mirror knew—perhaps better than I did—that this was no ordinary office admiration.

I scribbled in my notebook:

Admiration? 

Or… love? 

What’s the difference?

I read about admiration—respect for another’s qualities;

then I read about love—“a profound affection that binds two hearts.”

Neither definition felt complete. Instead, my thoughts tangled into an emotional knot.

The following morning, I bumped into Eleanor at the coffee machine. Her gloved fingers circled the ceramic cup, steam coiling around her coat like a tiny tempest.

“Good morning, Tom,” she said, her voice bright. “Did you see the final draft of the Peters report?”

“Ah—yes, of course,” I stammered. “Excellent work. Really thorough.”

My words tumbled out as she smiled and departed; my coffee sloshed over the rim. One drop landed on my blazer. I pinched the spill in the fabric, my cheeks warm.

My admiration felt too small to describe that moment, and love felt too large to confess it. So I did nothing except silently curse myself for dripping coffee.

That Saturday, I spent an hour observing the rain on my office window. Water trails split and recombined like political alliances in the city.

I wondered if that was how emotions worked—splitting between admiration and love, then merging into the truth at unexpected turns.

I drafted a chart:

**Admiration**

**Love**

Respect

Affection

Distance

Intimacy

Analysis

Vulnerable

Mind

Heart

But the chart didn’t solve anything. It merely showed how far apart admiration and love could seem, even when they shared common ground.

On Monday, I found Eleanor in the boardroom, rehearsing her presentation. The rise and fall of her tone, the way she paused at just the right moments, filled the room with purpose. I watched from the doorway, transfixed. When she finished, the applause felt too quiet for all the skill she’d displayed.

She noticed me standing there. “Tom,” she said, in that friendly, disarming way, “you’re always so supportive.”

I nodded, blinking quickly. “Yes. Always.”

At lunch, I joined her at the canteen. I hoped it would be casual enough to speak freely, but instead it became another minefield of awkward glances and stilted questions: “Do you prefer the tuna salad or the turkey wrap?” “I… uh… don’t know. Both fine.”

I chewed on a lettuce leaf and nearly launched into fresh admiration for the precise way she’d tied her shoelaces that morning. Instead, I forced myself to ask a simple question: “How was your weekend?”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, lovely—thanks. I went hiking at Sunrise Peak. The view was incredible.”

“How… incredible?”

She described the peaks, the changing light, the breeze, as though she were painting with words. As she spoke, I realised I wasn’t just admiring her skill at painting a picture; I longed to be there, standing next to her, breathing the same air.

I caught myself leaning forward, utterly present in her story, and felt something intimate stir in my chest.

That evening, I sat at my piano. Music had always been my refuge, notes transforming my emotions into songs. My fingers moved over the keys, playing the gentle theme Eleanor had hummed earlier that day.

But the melody soon fragmented, turning into staccato bursts as my heart—catching the tune—pounded in my ears.

Love, if that’s what this is, finds its own melody, I thought. I just have to learn to join the chorus.

The next morning, I resolved to make a confession of sorts—no grand gestures, no trembling knee—just genuine words. I found her in the hallway, filing papers neatly in her organiser.

My pulse lurched.

“Eleanor,” I began, voice rough. “I’ve… I’ve enjoyed working with you these past weeks.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” Her gaze was curious.

I took a breath. “I feel something more than just respect—something… complicated. I don’t know if it’s love or admiration, but… I care about you. A lot.”

Silence cracked between us. Her eyes softened.

Later, I gathered courage over double-espresso shots and paces in the car park. Love feels like the sea crashing against the sand; admiration feels like a gentle breeze through the pines.

It wasn’t easy to untangle the two within me. My emotions kept shifting, like the rain the Saturday before, until I realised that perhaps it wasn’t about picking one or the other but embracing both.

At our desks, I watched her again—her bright laughter at a joke, the serious focus on her work. I realised that love need not discard admiration, and admiration need not deny love. They were two sides of the same coin: the coin I had spent so long avoiding, worried it would slip through my fingers if I caught it.

Bracing myself, I turned to my screen—two words hovering in my mind: _I_ _choose_—and typed her name on the new memo: “Lunch on Friday?” I hit send.

On Friday, she smiled when she saw the invitation. I met her at our favourite café, heart fluttering as though questioning every beat. She greeted me warmly, and there, with a shared table between us, I finally let my feelings show in full—no spreadsheet, no chart, no neat columns.

“I choose both,” I said simply.

She laughed softly, her hand brushing mine. “I’m glad.” And I realised that this, indeed, was the start of something beautifully genuine: a journey where admiration and love moved in harmony, guiding us both into uncharted territory, together.