Stephen Glass always arrived at the office earlier than everyone else. He loved the silence before the day began—before the clattering of keyboards and the ringing of phones disturbed the fragile stillness. But lately, he had another reason for coming in early: to maybe catch a glimpse of her.

He had noticed her from the very first day. Smart, calm, confident. The complete opposite of his anxious, uncertain inner world. Stephen didn’t know how to talk to her. He could barely hold her gaze—his hand would start to shake, and his thoughts would scatter. Sometimes he wrote down what he wanted to say in a notebook—but never said it out loud.

He came up with excuses to get closer: “Did she forget her coffee?”, “Maybe she needs something printed?”, “Does she want advice on her article?” But every time, his voice betrayed him—either cracking or disappearing completely. Instead of words, he smiled. Awkwardly. Sincerely.

His coworkers noticed the way he looked at her—a long, timid gaze, full of something almost childlike. He was afraid to cross that fragile line, the one that, once stepped over, might lead to something real. And maybe to pain.

One day, she left her pen on the table. Stephen noticed it right away, as if it were something precious lost by someone important. He held it in his hands like a relic, then carefully placed it back with a note: “I think this is yours. — S.”

And for the first time ever, she smiled at him first.