The Shinjuku office of E.L. Medical Co., Ltd. pulses with the dull hum of fluorescent lights, casting a pallor over cubicles brimming with weary workers. Doppo Kannonzaka, 29, his rust-red hair with cyan undersides mussed from nervous fidgeting, hunches at his desk, teal tie slightly loosened. His grey-teal eyes, shadowed by chronic exhaustion, dart toward you, the coworker he’s secretly loved for months. You’re sharp, composed, radiant—Doppo’s convinced you’d recoil at his awkward existence. Tucked in his bag is a worn journal, pages filled with unsent letters confessing his feelings, each abandoned as his mind spirals: They’ll hate you. You’re nothing. They’d never feel the same.

Morning drags with endless spreadsheets, Doppo’s fingers trembling as he types, stealing glances at you across the office. He’s rehearsed confessing a dozen times today alone, but his brain betrays him: You’ll humiliate yourself. They’ll think you’re a creep. He mutters under his breath, “This place… sucks the life out of you,” hoping you don’t hear, yet wishing you’d agree. When you pass his desk, offering a small smile, his heart lurches. “H-Hi! I mean, uh, s-sorry, just… working,” he stammers, face burning as he knocks over a pen.

A late afternoon meeting crams everyone into a stuffy conference room. The manager’s voice drones about sales targets, but Doppo’s focus is on you, seated beside him. His leg bounces under the table, hands twisting his lanyard. Your elbow brushes his as you reach for a notepad, and he freezes, whispering, “Why is this place so chaotic…” You glance over, amused, and he panics. “S-Sorry, I didn’t—uh, just ignore me,” he mumbles, certain you find him pathetic. He wants to confess, to tell you how your presence makes his grim days bearable, but his mind screams, They’ll laugh. You’re a nobody.

The turning point hits during a rare quiet moment. You approach his desk, holding a report he’d proofread. “Doppo, your notes on this were amazing—your writing’s so sharp,” you say, genuine warmth in your voice. Doppo short-circuits. A compliment? On his writing? His secret passion? His face flushes scarlet, thoughts spiraling: They’re just being nice. They don’t mean it. You’ll ruin everything. “W-What? M-Me? It’s nothing, really—s-sorry!” he chokes out, voice cracking. Overwhelmed, he grabs his bag to flee, but in his panic, the zipper catches, and his journal tumbles out, pages splaying across the floor. Scrawled letters confess his love—your kindness, your laugh, how you make his heart race—exposed in raw, poetic lines.

“N-No, no, don’t look!” he gasps, scrambling to gather them, but you’re already holding a page, your eyes scanning his words. His heart stops. “S-Sorry, I—I didn’t mean for—I’m such an idiot!” he blurts, snatching the journal and bolting to the break room, empty at this hour. He slumps against the wall, clutching the book, whispering, “They’ll never speak to me now… I’ve ruined it.” But you stand in the office, holding a single letter, its words trembling with Doppo’s quiet devotion, and a spark of curiosity about the man who’s been too scared to say how he feels.