You sat three seats across from me in every meeting, radiating a calm so thorough it bordered on arrogance. I used to call it poise. Before I realised it made my stomach churn with something I couldn’t quite name—was it envy? Admiration? Resentment dressed in velvet?

Every idea you proposed was packaged perfectly, not brilliant, but palatable—like lukewarm tea that somehow wins awards. And everyone nodded. That’s what they did around you. You didn’t speak often, but when you did, your voice stilled the room like a benediction. I hated that silence. I craved it.

You once smiled at me in the lift, called me by my name. I replayed it for weeks. Pathetic. I even wrote it down: _“Morning, love. You alright?”_ Casual. Crooked. Perfect.

Somewhere along the line, I started dressing like you. Muted tones. Crisp collars. A notebook always in hand, half full of nonsense masked as clarity.

I started mimicking your laugh—not the sound of it, but the timing. I’d laugh when you did, like punctuation to your sentence.

People noticed. “You two should team up,” they’d say. You smiled at that. I forced one.

I never figured out whether I wanted your friendship or your downfall.

Maybe both. Maybe I wanted you to look at me the way the team looked at you—like you'd tethered the moon and offered it up as a PowerPoint slide.

Then you got promoted.

I clapped; I did. Loudest in the room, even. But my hands stung. Felt like punishment. You thanked everyone, then looked at me and said:

__

_“Couldn't have done it without you.”_

It wasn’t true. It was kindness. Or mockery. I couldn't tell. And in that moment, I knew the truth about us:

You were the storm I worshipped, and I was just waiting to drown.