The news broadcast warned that a Category 4 hurricane was set to make landfall on the coast by six o’clock this evening. By four, my coworkers were already packing up their desks, anxious to beat the storm. Public transit had already been suspended, and those with cars were generously offering rides to those without. When one of them paused by my cubicle to ask if I needed a lift, I gave him a grateful smile and declined. “Thanks, man, but I’m good. My girlfriend’s picking me up.” He grinned, clapping my shoulder. “Must be nice having someone looking out for you.” By five o’clock, the wind outside had turned into a low, predatory howl, rattling the glass panes of our high-rise office. I dialed Lauren’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. I pulled up our text thread. Her last message was from an hour ago: “On my way, babe!” Traffic in this weather was bound to be a nightmare. I told myself it was normal for her to be delayed. By five-thirty, the sky had turned a bruising shade of purple, and torrential rain began hammering the windows. I was the last person left in the entire building. Suddenly, the fluorescent light above my head flickered violently, hummed, and snapped off. The entire floor plunged into pitch darkness. Standing alone in the shadows, I tried Lauren’s number again. This time, the call connected. But the voice that answered wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice—smooth, familiar, and instantly recognizable. “Seth?” I froze, the phone heavy against my ear. “Where’s Lauren?” “Oh, hey, Seth!” Mike said, his tone entirely too casual. “Lauren’s driving right now, so her hands are occupied.” “Where are you guys?” “On the way to my apartment. Lauren said it was way too dangerous for me to navigate the storm on my own. Oh, by the way—she said she sent you a text half an hour ago telling you to grab an Uber home. You made it back safe, right?” Outside, the wind shrieked against the building. Inside, my chest went completely hollow, a cold numbness spreading from my heart outward to my fingertips. For three years, Lauren had funneled every ounce of her warmth, concern, and domestic tender loving care into this junior colleague. And standing alone in the dark, I felt the very last ember of my love for her quietly burn out. “Yeah,” I said softly, my voice devoid of any inflection. “I’m home.” A home that would never feature her in it again. … I heard Mike let out an audible sigh of relief over the speaker. “Glad you made it back! We’re almost at my place, too. Lauren wanted me to let you know that since the storm is hitting hard, she’s probably just going to crash on my couch tonight.” “Okay,” I murmured flatly. In the background, I could hear Lauren’s voice. Even through the staticky connection, the subtle, protective tenderness in her tone was unmistakable. “Are you cold, Mike? Should I crank up the heat in the car?” Mike chuckled. “Babe—I mean, Lauren—it’s the middle of July!” Right. It was summer. Yet I was shivering, a deep, bone-chilling cold settling into the marrow of my bones. The call disconnected. I stared down at the glowing screen of my phone, scrolling back through our chat. There was no message telling me to call an Uber. She probably “had” typed one out. Maybe the signal dropped before it went through. But all that proved was that after hitting ‘send,’ she hadn’t bothered to look at our conversation—or think about me—even once. She didn’t use to be like this. When we first started dating seven years ago, her phone was practically glued to her hand whenever we weren’t physically together. She would send me the most mundane updates—a funny-looking cloud, a stray dog that barked at her on her morning commute, what she had for breakfast. My messages were met with instantaneous replies. She used to tell me she hated the idea of keeping me waiting, terrified that I might need her and she wouldn’t be there. Now, her devotion belonged to someone else. A bitter ache bloomed in the back of my throat. The gale-force winds outside felt like an invisible hand squeezing my heart, tight and unrelenting. At six o’clock sharp, the hurricane officially hit land. And I was completely trapped in an abandoned office building. I made my way blindly into the breakroom, shutting the heavy door tight behind me. Sitting on the small sofa, I called my parents, who lived two states away, to tell them I was safe. “Are you with Lauren?” my mother asked softly, her voice laced with concern. I paused, staring into the dark. “Yeah,” I lied. “We’re together.” When the call ended, the screen went black, and the room dissolved back into pitch darkness. The silence inside was suffocating, broken only by the terrifying roar of the tempest outside. A moment later, my screen illuminated again. My heart shot into my throat—a foolish, instinctual reaction—and I snatched the phone up instantly. The hope died just as fast. It was an automated emergency broadcast from the city: “Please shelter in place with your loved ones. Though the storm is fierce, we will weather it together.” I opened my social media apps just to distract myself. My feed was filled with posts from friends marveling at the storm’s power while sharing photos of cozy family dinners and home-cooked meals. My stomach growled loudly. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since noon. Rummaging through the breakroom cabinets, I found a stale package of saltine crackers. I chewed on them quietly, washing them down with water while mindlessly staring at the photos of delicious food on my screen. As I scrolled, my thumb froze. A familiar profile picture popped up. It was a post from Mike: “How am I supposed to eat normal food again when my coworker cooks like a five-star chef? She’s totally ruined my palate.” The attached photo showed three mouthwatering dishes and a bowl of soup—Lauren’s signature recipes. In the corner of the frame, a woman’s hand was visible, throwing up a playful peace sign. I remembered the night she first made those dishes for me, years ago. She had wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered that aside from her parents, I was the only person in the world she would ever cook for. I guess her “forever” had a three-year expiration date. I pressed the ‘like’ button on Mike’s post, then typed a public comment beneath it: “Sounds like you should ask her to be your girlfriend, then.” Less than two minutes later, a private message from Lauren flashed at the top of my screen. “Seth, what is your problem? Is that supposed to be funny?” Was it funny? I wondered if she realized that what they were doing behind my back was far more absurd than anything I could write in a comment section. She had opened our chat to confront me, yet she still hadn’t noticed the red exclamation point beside her unsent text from earlier. She hadn’t bothered to check if I was safe. She hadn’t even asked where I was. My fingers tightened around the aluminum casing of my phone until my knuckles turned white. I was just typing out a response—telling her that I was stranded, alone, in an unlit office building—when a deafening, thunderous “CRASH” shattered the air outside the breakroom! I flinched violence, my heart leaping into my throat. Peering through the slats of the breakroom blinds, I watched in absolute horror as a massive section of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall on the main office floor caved inward under the storm’s pressure. Violent, screaming gusts of wind flooded the open-plan office, tearing papers, office supplies, and ceiling tiles into a chaotic vortex. A heavy wooden partition flew through the breach, slamming with terrifying force against the breakroom door. Instinct took over. I shoved the sofa against the door, bracing myself as the structure groaned under the wind pressure. Panic flooded my system, turning my brain into a blank slate. Before I even realized what I was doing, my thumb was pressing Lauren’s speed dial. The phone rang for nearly thirty seconds before she picked up. Before I could speak, Lauren’s impatient voice cut through the speaker: “Seth, give me a second, I’m kind of busy right now—” “Lauren!” I gasped, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “I’m at the office. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows just blew out, I’m—” There was a pause on her end, followed by the muffled sound of a television. “Wait, glass broke?” she said, her voice dripping with mild annoyance. “In our living room? Seth, just go into the bedroom and shut the door. It’s fine. I’ll call a glass repair company tomorrow morning…” In the background, the distinctive sound effects of a video game echoed loudly. A second later, Mike’s voice boomed through the receiver, yelling in triumph: “Yes! Beat your high score again!” Lauren’s fond, affectionate chuckle drifted through the line. “Fine, fine, you win! A bet’s a bet. Dinner’s on me next time.” “Hey, why wait for next time? How about tomorrow?” Mike teased. “Alright, alright…” Lauren laughed softly. Every single word I was about to say died in my throat. Standing in the dark, listening to her flirt with another man while storm winds raged feet away from me, I finally surrendered to the cold, undeniable truth: Seven years of history, loyalty, and shared dreams had lost to a three-year workplace crush. … I remembered the first time Lauren had ever mentioned Mike to me, three years ago. Her tone back then had been one of mild exasperation. He was a fresh hire, placed on her team right out of college. She complained that he messed up his data spreadsheets, forcing her to work late two nights in a row to fix his mistakes. She complained that he accidentally spilled hot coffee on her favorite blazer. For months, mentioning Mike came with a heavy sigh and an rolling of her eyes. Then came her department’s summer party, to which partners were invited. That was the first time I met the guy. He was a year younger than us, fair-skinned, with soft, boyish features and an easy, eager-to-please smile. Lauren had introduced me to him, nudging his elbow playfulness. “Say hi to Seth.” He had smiled dutifully. “Hey, Seth. Nice to meet you, man.” That night, I caught Lauren watching him while he struggled to open a beer bottle. There was a look in her eyes that made my stomach turn—a soft, indulgent warmth. I didn’t have a word for it back then. Now I did. It was devotion. After that night, the subtle shifts began. When I asked Lauren to go to a local art exhibition with me one weekend, she apologized, saying Mike’s laptop had crashed and she needed to help him recover his project files. When I stayed silent, she quickly added that the entire team’s quarterly performance depended on those files. When a highly anticipated psychological thriller hit theaters, I bought two tickets. She hesitated, then admitted she’d already seen it with Mike. “The company gave out free passes,” she explained. “The whole team went.” I later found out from a mutual friend that she and Mike had sat in the back corner of the theater, miles away from the rest of their department. Eventually, it escalated. She started driving him home every time it rained. She memorized his favorite clothing brands. Whenever we went out to eat, she would meticulously instruct the server not to put onions or garlic in certain dishes—because Mike was allergic. One evening, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Lauren… are you in love with Mike?” She had blinked at me in genuine shock, then burst out laughing. “Are you out of your mind? He’s a kid, Seth! He’s just an idiot coworker who needs a little extra guidance, and I’m just trying to be a good senior teammate.” “An idiot coworker.” Such an affectionate, protective little label. And the things she was doing for him had long surpassed the boundaries of being “a good teammate.” I don’t remember when I finally fell asleep that night, huddled on the breakroom sofa amidst the roaring wind. I just remember entering a long, suffocating nightmare where I was chasing her through a fog, calling her name, while she walked away without looking back. When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining. The rain had cleared, the wind had died down, and the faint, familiar sounds of morning traffic drifted up from the streets below. The storm was over. And so was my nightmare. I left the office, took a cab home, showered, and changed into clean clothes. Just as I stepped out of the bathroom, the front door clicked open. Lauren walked in, looking tired. When she saw me standing in the hallway, she let out a visible sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, walking toward me. “Yesterday was crazy… what happened with the glass window?” She turned her head to look at our living room bay window. It was completely pristine, reflecting the bright morning sun. She froze, confusion washing over her face. I looked at her, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “It was just a bad dream.” She blinked, then nodded slowly, assuming I meant I had panicked over nothing. Seeing me put on my jacket, she stepped into my path, her expression suddenly hesitant. “Seth… about that dinner with your parents next Wednesday… can we reschedule?” I met her gaze, my face a mask of absolute calm. “Why?” Her voice softened into that familiar, pitying cadence she used whenever Mike was involved. “Next Wednesday is the anniversary of Mike’s mom passing away. His dad is stuck overseas on business, so he’s completely alone. It’s just… he’s in a really dark place, Seth. Going to her grave by himself seems so heartbreaking.” My hands clenched into tight fists inside my jacket pockets, the nails digging into my palms until it hurt. I forced my breathing to remain steady. “This is the fourth time you’ve canceled on my parents, Lauren. And their flight tickets are already booked.” She frowned, her tone shifting from soft to exasperated. “Seth, be reasonable! Am I just supposed to abandon him when he’s grieving? We’re a team.” “And we are supposed to be partners.” The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t bother saying them out loud. What was the point? A sharp, throbbing ache pulsed behind my temples—a leftover gift from last night’s stress. I rubbed my forehead and sighed quietly. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” Her face instantly lit up with relief. “I knew you’d understand! Don’t worry, I promise I’ll make it up to your parents. I’ll host a huge dinner for them next time they’re in town!” Her phone chimed with a familiar ringtone. She answered it immediately, turning on her heel and walking toward the bedroom. “Hey, Mike! Seth said it’s totally fine. I’ll be there with you on Wednesday…” I pulled out my own phone, opened a text thread with my mother, and typed out a message: “Hey Mom. You know how you’ve been wanting me to meet your friend’s daughter—the artist you keep raving about? Let’s set up that dinner for next Wednesday.” … When I arrived at the office later that morning, contractors were already hard at work installing a temporary wooden barrier over the shattered window frame. My coworkers were huddled in small groups, whispering nervously. “Man, thank God we left early yesterday. That wind was terrifying.” One of my team leads spotted me and walked over. “Hey, Seth! Glad to see you made it in. Your girlfriend picked you up alright yesterday, right?” I offered a faint, hollow smile. “No. She was busy driving her male coworker home.” The small circle of coworkers went dead silent. Someone asked carefully, “So… you took an Uber home in that crazy storm?” “No,” I replied calmly. “I spent the night in the breakroom.” A collective sharp intake of breath echoed through the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. Finally, my team lead reached out and gave my shoulder a heavy, sympathetic squeeze. “Seth… man. You’re stronger than I’d ever be.” I didn’t feel strong, but I saw no reason to hide the truth. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Near the end of the workday, my phone buzzed. A text from Lauren: “I’m parked downstairs waiting for you.” I stared at the screen, my eyes dimming. She hadn’t picked me up from work in over a year. Whenever she promised to come by, it inevitably ended with a last-minute cancellation because Mike needed a ride, or Mike needed help with an errand. I took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped out into the evening air. Sure enough, her sedan was idling by the curb. I walked over, reaching for the front passenger door handle. Before I could pull it open, the glass rolled down, revealing Mike’s boyish, smiling face in the passenger seat. “Hey, Seth! What’s up?” Lauren leaned over from the driver’s seat, offering an apologetic smile. “Mike said a really good new authentic Szechuan hotpot place opened near your office. I booked a table for us—wanna grab a bite?” I stood by the car, looking at her. My voice was very quiet, almost lost in the ambient noise of the street. “Lauren. I can’t eat spicy food.” She blinked. A sudden, violent flash of embarrassment crossed her face. She had forgotten. She had completely forgotten a basic detail about my body, when years ago, she used to carefully pick every single chili flake out of a shared dish just so I wouldn’t burn my tongue. Without another word, I pulled my hand back from the door handle. They drove off a few moments later. She hadn’t come to pick me up. She had simply realized I was nearby and treated me as an afterthought. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest, but my mind cleared it away with cold, surgical precision. I was done. I resolved to officially end things with her this weekend. That evening, however, Lauren acted strangely secretive. She sent me a text asking me to meet her at an upscale restaurant downtown on Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp, promising a “huge surprise.” I stared at the date on my calendar. Saturday was our seven-year anniversary. A faint spark of confusion flickered in my mind. She actually remembered? Part of me wondered what she was planning, but it didn’t change my mind. I decided I would let her say whatever she wanted to say, and then I would end it. On Saturday morning, traffic was horrific due to post-storm road repairs. By the time I arrived at the restaurant’s private dining room, it was ten-thirty. Walking down the carpeted hallway, memories involuntarily flooded my mind. Lauren used to obsess over our anniversaries. She once set up dozens of tea lights spelling out the date we first met. Another year, she secretly spent months learning acoustic guitar just to sing a song I had offhandedly mentioned loving. She made scrapbooks of every trip we ever took. But starting three years ago, every single anniversary had been derailed. Three years ago, Mike caught the flu, and she abandoned our dinner reservation because “we have plenty of anniversaries ahead of us, and he’s all alone in the hospital.” Two years ago, Mike sliced his hand open while meal-prepping, and she abandoned a half-frosted cake to rush him to Urgent Care. Last year, Mike drank too much at a bar, and she claimed she was just dropping him off—only to disappear for the entire night. I didn’t expect anything grand this time. I just wanted to get through a meal, say my piece, and walk away clean. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the private room. “POP!” A shower of colorful confetti exploded into the air, raining down over my hair and shoulders. The room was packed with nearly twenty people, all cheering—until they looked at my face. The room went dead quiet. “Wait… that’s not Mike,” someone whispered. “Who shouted that the footsteps sounded like him?!” another complained. “Quick, sweep up the ribbons! He’s gonna be here any second!” I stood anchored to the doorway, entirely bewildered. Before I could process the scene, Lauren darted out from the crowd, grabbed my arm, and shoved a plastic confetti popper into my hands. “I told you to be here at ten!” she hissed under her breath. “Hurry, stand by the door! When Mike walks in, twist the bottom!” A sound crept up my throat—a dry, absurd laugh that I barely contained. I looked down at her, my voice unnaturally steady. “Lauren. What is this?” Her eyes were fixed entirely on the hallway outside, not even looking at me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you! Mike’s big project got officially approved by executive management, so he’s getting promoted to senior manager! The whole team chipped in for a surprise party.” She paused, glancing at me briefly. “You always complain that I never include you when I hang out with my work friends, so I thought I’d invite you along this time.” I stared at her. The coldness inside me was absolute. “Lauren. Do you know what today is?” She blinked at me, her mind clearly blank. “What do you mean?” I nodded slowly, a small, sad smile touching my lips. “Lauren,” I said, my voice quiet and crystal clear. “Let’s break up.” “POP!” “CONGRATS ON THE PROMOTION, Mike!” A roar of cheers, applause, and popping party streamers exploded behind me, completely drowning out my final sentence. Lauren didn’t hear a word. She had already spun around and bounded across the room, throwing her arms around Mike’s neck in a joyful, tight hug. I pulled a piece of foil confetti off my lapel, turned on my heel, and walked out of the room. Outside in the quiet corridor, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother: “Your dad and I just boarded our flight. Seth, I’m so glad you finally came to your senses about her.” My mother had mentioned that her friend’s daughter, Violet, happened to be living in the city as well, and had agreed to join us for dinner on Wednesday evening. I typed back a single word: “Okay.” Then I headed toward the airport. … The next day, I took my parents to check out a few local sights. We had just finished touring a historic garden when my phone began ringing off the hook. It was Lauren. I ignored the first three calls, but on the fourth, she sent a panic-stricken text: “Seth, where are you?! Something terrible happened, answer me!” Thinking it might be an actual emergency, I dropped a pin of my current location. Ten minutes later, a car screeched to a halt near the park entrance. Lauren sprinted toward me—with Mike trailing right behind her. She caught sight of my parents sitting on a nearby bench, froze for a fraction of a second, then grabbed my arm and dragged me several yards away, her voice hushed and panicked. “What is going on, Seth?! I told you I have to be with Mike on Wednesday! I don’t have time to entertain your parents!” I looked down at her hand on my sleeve, then flicked my eyes up to hers. “If you don’t have time, am I not allowed to invite someone else?” She assumed I was just making a sarcastic, bitter comment and brushed it off. Pulling out her phone, she opened a viral social media post and shoved the screen into my face. “Did you post this comment?!” she demanded. The post was a series of photos uploaded by Mike from yesterday’s party. The first photo showed Lauren hugging Mike tightly. The second showed her laughing as she smeared cake frosting on his nose. The third showed the two of them leaning their heads together, grinning intimately into the camera. The account belonged to Mike, captioned: “Celebrating with my absolute favorite coworker! Best day ever~” Even though a dozen coworkers had attended the party, every single photo in his album featured only him and Lauren. His subtle, possessive intentions were glaringly obvious. I let out a soft, mocking chuckle, my gaze dropping to the top-voted comment under the post. It read: “Not gonna lie, this female coworker has a long-term boyfriend.” Right below it, someone had attached a picture of me and Lauren from two years ago. The comment section had completely exploded. Hundreds of netizens were slamming Mike, calling him a shameless workplace intruder and a homewrecker. No wonder Lauren was frantic. “Mike’s notifications are out of control!” Lauren hissed, her face flushed with anxiety. “People are calling his department, calling him a mistress! If management sees this, his promotion could be revoked! You need to log on right now, reply to that comment, and say you’re the guy in the photo, you were at the party too, and you’re all just great friends!” I met her desperate eyes. “And what if I say no?” Lauren stared at me in disbelief. Before she could speak, Mike suddenly covered his face and let out a choked, dramatic sob. “I’m really not a bad guy…” he whimpered, his eyes red. “If the VP sees those comments, three years of my hard work are gone…” My parents noticed the commotion from the bench and began looking over, their faces filled with worry. Lauren noticed them too. She turned back to me, her teeth gritted, her voice dropping into a low threat. “Seth. If you don’t clear his name right now, I’m going over there to tell your parents everything and ask them to make you!” A cold disgust washed over me. I didn’t want my parents dragged into her pathetic drama. “Fine,” I said, my voice dead. “I’ll reply.” I pulled out my phone, opened the app, found Mike’s viral post, and typed out a response directly under the top comment: “I am the man in the photo. The female pictured and I have officially broken up. Whatever she and her colleague do from this point forward has nothing to do with me.” Lauren leaned over my shoulder to read it. Her brows pulled into a deep frown. “Seth… even if you’re trying to clear his name, you didn’t have to phrase it so harshly.” Still, with the public clarification posted, the immediate crisis was defused. She let out a long sigh, her face softening into a look of condescending gratitude. “I knew you were still a good person at heart, Seth,” she said softly. “Don’t worry about tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll wrap things up with Mike as fast as I can and rush over to meet your parents.” I didn’t say a word. Taking my silence as agreement, she grabbed Mike’s arm and walked away. … The next evening, our dinner reservation was set for six o’clock. At seven, a text arrived from Lauren: “Just dropped Mike off at his place! On my way now!” At eight, another text: “Mike’s stomach ulcer flared up from stress, I’m at the pharmacy getting his prescription. I’ll be a little late!” At nine o’clock sharp, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway outside our private dining room. A second later, the door was pushed open. Lauren burst into the room, holding several high-end gift bags in her hands, out of breath. “Auntie, Uncle, I am so, so sorry I’m late—” She froze mid-sentence. The warm, apologetic smile on her face shattered instantly.
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