My Crush at Job
I saw her first across a desk, a temporary guest.
Not the brightest flame in the room,
but the one my eyes chose anyway.
Cute face. Specs. Short hair till her shoulders.
Always walking fast — never saw her slow down.
Lean, small, brisk — and when she moved,
her hair waved like a soft, dark feather.
Serious face, always.
Until she smiled at someone she knew.
Then — a child's smile. The kind that pierces.
I could watch that smile all day without breathing.
Western clothes made her look like she owned the floor.
But the kurtis — soft, long or short, sleeveless sometimes —
with leggings tracing her lean legs,
and that small black bindi,
and that smile?
I melted like summer ice-cream left in the sun.
We never talked.
She knows I exist. Probably doesn't like me.
But even her cold side-eye glance felt like a blessing —
an unseen aura brushing past my ordinary day.
She was never mine.
Not even a moment.
But she made my days lighter just by walking through them.
And when I leave this job,
I won't tell her.
Not because I'm afraid —
but because her peace matters more than my confession.
I'll just write this down somewhere.
And let her go like a feather.
Light. Unheld. Remembered.