It began like any other job.
A desk. A schedule. A paycheck that arrived on time. Routine. Comfort. Normal.
At first, nothing felt remarkable. We came, we worked, we left. Life moved predictably.
Then the subtle shift happened.
Small things. Late meetings that seemed unnecessary. Doors closing a little too often. Laughter behind glass walls that felt… off. Nothing concrete. Nothing provable. Just enough to plant doubt.
And once doubt takes root, it doesn’t stay small.
The atmosphere changed. Conversations grew quiet. Eyes wandered. People watched more than they worked. The air itself felt heavier, charged with suspicion.
Then came the intern. Young, quiet, always in the office at odd hours. Access to meetings most interns never saw. Present where she didn’t belong—or so it seemed.
We filled in the blanks ourselves. We assumed the worst. Late meetings weren’t meetings—they were secrets. Closed doors weren’t privacy—they were conspiracies. Laughter wasn’t harmless—it was suspicious.
The whispering began. Quiet. Insidious. Soon, whispers became belief. Belief became certainty.
And I wasn’t immune. I told myself I was observing. Just noticing patterns. But in reality, I was doing exactly what everyone else was doing—creating a story out of fragments, filling gaps with imagination.
Then the phone calls started. His wife. Polite, but tense. Curious. Searching.
Until one day, I didn’t give the usual answer.
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