23 December 2003
The office had become a hollow shell, its usual buzz replaced with a heavy, listless quiet. Most desks stood abandoned, their surfaces cleared of clutter, save for the occasional forgotten mug or paperweight. The world outside hummed with holiday cheer, but here, it felt like a mausoleum for unspoken loneliness. Most of my colleagues had slipped away early, eager to spend the season with their families, lovers, or at least the comforting presence of close friends.
But not me. My desk light burned late, not out of necessity, but because I had nowhere else to go. The silence here was better than the oppressive quiet of my apartment, where the ticking clock mocked me for how empty my life had become.
Even Samuel, my one lifeline to some semblance of human connection, had been swallowed up by the demands of domestic bliss. He had made a valiant attempt to escape it, of course. He'd leaned into the age-old excuse of work commitments, spinning tales of backlogs and critical deadlines. He thought it might buy him a reprieve. But his wife, Anne, saw right through him.
She'd stood her ground, her arms crossed in that way he described, the stubborn glare that brooked no argument. Samuel had caved, not out of fear, but out of love—or guilt, perhaps. He confessed that the thought of skipping out on buying their kids Christmas clothes had tugged at his heart. Anne's insistence melted whatever resistance he had left, and he resigned himself to the ordeal.
I could picture it vividly: Samuel trailing behind her through crowded stores, juggling an ever-growing pile of shopping bags. Anne, scrutinizing every rack, dismissing one outfit after another, her search for the perfect dress turning into a marathon of judgment. His kids, wide-eyed and hopeful, clinging to his legs while he tried to corral their excitement. He'd complain about it later, of course, grumbling about aching feet and endless queues. But the way he talked about his family, even through his frustration, betrayed a warmth I couldn't miss.
And yet, for all his theatrics, Samuel had a life beyond this office, one that filled his world with noise, chaos, and love. I envied that. I envied the way he could lose himself in the mess of it all, even if he didn't realize how lucky he was.
I didn't had any enthusiasm for the Christmas celebration. Most of them had taken off duty so, I decided to come to office and do some paperwork and indulge myself to some brain activities.
That day, Sasha had been there in a desk clicking the computers, some simple paperwork. Sasha also had also given me a prior leave letter, and she had come back to work at 28 or 27 after her trip to Japan. She had loved her grandmother, well her grandmother name was something in Japanese. It was difficult so I had forgotten.
I didn't have any enthusiasm for the Christmas celebrations. While most had taken time off to bask in the holiday cheer, I found myself gravitating toward the quiet of the office. I convinced myself it was about catching up on paperwork, but deep down, I knew it was just a way to keep my mind occupied. The stillness here was easier to bear than the emptiness waiting for me at home.
That day, I wasn't completely alone. Sasha was at her desk, her fingers flying across the keyboard, occasionally jotting notes on some simple paperwork. She worked with an energy that contrasted sharply with the room's somber silence, her focus unshaken despite the holiday lull.
"I've been meaning to visit my grandmother," she said, glancing down as if bracing for me to deny the request.
Her grandmother's name was something distinctively Japanese, a melodic sound I couldn't quite catch, let alone remember. I nodded, trying to process the unfamiliar name, but it faded almost instantly from my mind. Still, the affection in her voice when she spoke of her grandmother was unmistakable.
"Fine," I said, signing off on the leave. "But don't make a habit of cutting it this close."
She smiled, a brief flash of relief. "Thank you, sir. I'll be back on the 27th or 28th, depending on the flights."
As she returned to her desk, I watched her work with the same efficiency as always, tying up loose ends before her departure. Her energy was different today, lighter somehow, touched by the anticipation of seeing someone she cared about. It was a stark contrast to the monotony I had resigned myself to.
For a moment, I wondered what it must feel like to be that eager to see someone—to have that kind of connection. Then the thought passed, and I went back to my papers.
"Sir," Sasha's fingers paused over the keyboard, her gaze shifting toward me. "You won't be going anywhere for Christmas?"
I leaned back in my chair, offering a faint smile. "I'm a lonely man, Campbell," I said simply. "I wish there was a place I could go, but... no plans."
She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line before she spoke again. "Sir, why not try, um, blind dates? I mean…" Her voice trailed off as if realizing how absurd the suggestion might sound to someone like me.
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "Blind dates? No, Campbell. I'm far too outdated for that sort of thing."
She smiled faintly, a mix of amusement and empathy in her expression. "You never know, sir. It could surprise you."
"Surprises," I replied, my tone dry. "Haven't had a good one in years."
She didn't push further, sensing the wall I'd quietly put up. Instead, she returned to her work, her fingers resuming their steady rhythm on the keys. The moment passed, but her words lingered, trailing in the silence of the office.
For a brief second, I wondered what it might feel like to try—just once—to reach for something outside my routine. Then, with a sigh, I turned back to the file in front of me, dismissing the thought as quickly as it had come.
Somehow, her comment made me recall my most recent attempt at a date—a disastrous brunch with a girl whose name I couldn't even remember. The entire ordeal had been one embarrassing moment after another, like a bad sitcom episode that just wouldn't end. I didn't need to revisit every detail. Suffice it to say, it had been a mess—awkward, forced, and painfully short-lived. By the time we parted ways, there were no promises of another meeting. Just an awkward handshake and the silent agreement to pretend the whole thing never happened. And then, as if to add insult to injury, she stomped away, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement, a final punctuation mark on the whole disaster.
It had started with a sliver of hope, a cautious optimism that maybe, just maybe, stepping outside my comfort zone would lead to something worthwhile. Instead, it had been a mess—a conversation so stilted and forced that even the waiter seemed embarrassed for us.
That day could be summed up as 10 percent cool—a few moments of polite laughter and shared anecdotes—and 90 percent pure foolishness. Additionally, I couldn't even remember her name, my awkward attempts at small talk to her clear disinterest, it was as if we'd both realized halfway through the that this was a mistake.
By the time we parted ways, there was no exchange of numbers, no promises to meet again. Just an awkward handshake and the unspoken agreement that we'd pretend the whole thing never happened.
I chuckled to myself at the memory, shaking my head. "Blind dates," I muttered under my breath. "Definitely not for me."