A Note on the desk

It started with the faces.

Every time I walked past Yuvraaj's desk, he'd pull that same expression—eyebrows scrunched together, lips pressed in a thin, dismissive line, as if my existence was a mild inconvenience he had no choice but to endure.

It made me feel stupid. Like I was interrupting something I wasn't supposed to be part of. Like I was that girl. The girl who couldn't move on, who hung around even when she wasn't wanted.

But no one here knew the truth.

No one knew that behind the indifference he performed so well, there were messages that said I miss you.

Late-night calls that lasted until dawn.

Half-confessions whispered in empty stairwells.

It was never one-sided.

It was never just me.

But he made sure no one could tell.

One afternoon, I'd finally had enough. I'd caught him in the hallway, alone for once, with no audience to play to.

I stepped right into his path.

"Why do you keep doing this?" I demanded.

His eyes flickered, just for a second, before he put on that tired look he always saved for me.

"Doing what?" he asked blandly.

"This," I snapped, waving a hand between us. "Acting like I'm some kind of problem. Like I'm—like I'm obsessed with you or something."

Yuvraaj let out a slow sigh, like I was dragging him into some tedious argument he hadn't asked for.

"Noor, you're overthinking again."

"Am I?" My voice was sharper than I intended. "Because you don't seem to have any issue calling me at 2 a.m. But the second there are people around, you pretend I don't exist."

He looked past my shoulder, scanning the hallway.

"I never asked you to make things complicated," he said quietly.

My chest felt tight. "Complicated?" I repeated. "It was never just me, Yuvraaj. Don't stand here and pretend it was."

He didn't answer.

He just shook his head, like I was some stubborn child refusing to understand. Then he walked away.

That was the last real conversation we had.

After that, it was the same routine: the faces, the silence, the subtle ways he let everyone think he was the victim of my attention.

I came in early next day, determined to pretend everything was fine. Determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate. Determined to look like I didn't care that the department I'd joined—a department full of boys—had decided who I was before I even set foot here.

I set my bag down on my desk the same way I always did, like a ritual I hoped would anchor me. Earbuds in, coffee balanced precariously on the edge of my notepad. I liked that desk. It felt like the only small patch that was mine. A little island in a sea of people who had already picked a side.

I pulled out my notepad absently, ready to flip through my notes from the day before. And that's when I saw it.

Huge, crude letters scrawled across the cover in thick black pen:

"YOU ARE A SHITTY PERSON."

For a moment, I couldn't even process what I was looking at. My mind went blank. My chest felt tight, like I'd been punched.

Then all the feelings came at once—shame, humiliation—but most of all, anger.

Because this wasn't school.

Because we were adults.

Because this was petty, cowardly bullshit, and whoever did it didn't even have the guts to say it to my face.

I felt my hands shaking as I picked it up. The edges of the paper crumpled under my grip. My throat burned with the pressure of everything I didn't want to say out loud.

I looked around.

Some of them were pretending to be engrossed in their screens. Others were very deliberately not looking in my direction. But there was a small group by the glass partition who didn't bother hiding it—voices low, heads bent together.

A voice behind me—low, amused:

"Damn. Who had the guts to write that?"

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to see the smirks.

I picked up the notepad and pressed it against my chest, as if hiding it would make it disappear.

But I could still hear the laughter—soft and smug, the kind that burrows under your skin.

And in that moment, I hated them. All of them.

I took picture of it and sent it to Aliza

She appeared by my desk quietly, the way she always did—never making a scene, never drawing attention. She just leaned over and asked, her voice low,

"Are you okay?"

I swallowed. My voice felt raw when I answered.

"No," I said. "I'm not."

She nodded once, serious, and I knew she wasn't going to pretend it was nothing.

"Come," she said. "Let's talk."

We stepped into a small meeting room, and I put the notepad on the table between us like evidence. She looked at it, her mouth tightening.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" she asked.

I didn't even hesitate.

"Rohit."

The name came out sharper than I meant it to.

Rohit. The first person in that office who had treated me like I was a real human being. Who'd listened when I'd ranted. Who'd told me—quietly, reluctantly—that Yuvraaj was seeing someone else.

I'd accused him of lying then, too. I'd believed Yuvraaj over him, because the truth was too ugly to hold.

But who else would have the nerve to do this? Who else even knew enough about me to think it would hurt?

I could feel Aliza studying my face.

"You're sure?" she asked carefully.

I wasn't sure.

I was just angry.

And when you feel cornered, sometimes anger is the only shield you have.

"Yes," I said. "It was him."

Later that morning, I found Rohit by the water cooler.

But I remembered how he'd told me about Yuvraaj's girlfriend. How I'd accused him of lying. How after that, he'd started keeping his distance.

Part of me felt like this was his revenge.

I walked right up to him.

"Did you do it?" I demanded.

"Do what?"

I held up the notepad, my hand trembling.

"This." I shoved it closer to his face. "Did you write this?"

He looked at the words, then back at me, his expression flat.

"No."

"You're the only one who would."

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Really? That's what you think of me?"

"You told everyone I was obsessed with Yuvraaj," I snapped. "You already made me look crazy. This is exactly your style."

Rohit's jaw tightened.

"If I did it, Noor," he said slowly, "I'd say so. But I didn't."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't expect you to believe anything."

I felt the anger boiling over, too big to swallow.

"You know what?" I spat, my voice shaking. "F*ck this. You people are all cowards."

I turned and walked away, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would crack my ribs.

It didn't take long for Aliza to set up a meeting.

She was always professional, always fair, but I could tell she was as disgusted as I was.

The three of us sat around the little table—me, Aliza, and Rohit.

He looked tired, like he already knew what this was about.

Aliza cleared her throat.

"Rohit," she said, "we need to discuss something that happened. Noor found this written in her notepad this morning."

She turned it so he could read it.

He stared at it without blinking. When he finally looked up, his face was calm, almost resigned.

"I didn't do that," he said simply.

I felt something in me bristle.

"Come on," I snapped. "You're the only one who would."

He shook his head.

"If I did it, I would have said so," he told me evenly. "I have no problem admitting when I do something. But I didn't."

I wanted to believe him.

But I couldn't.

I was too angry, too humiliated.

"Then who?" I demanded. "Who else would bother?"

He shrugged slightly, as if this whole conversation was tedious.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "you wrote it yourself."

The words hit me like a slap.

For a second, all I could do was stare at him, my mouth hanging open.

He didn't even look at me when he spoke.

"I didn't do it," he said flatly. "I considered her my friend but not anymore, she is just a colleague and team mate and she's always resorting to personal attacks. Even today, she cursed me in front of everyone. She said F*ck this. You people are all cowards"

"Are you…are you stupid?" I hissed before I could stop myself.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Aliza gave a tiny, disbelieving laugh—just a reflex, the absurdity of it all spilling over. I laughed too, a small, brittle sound I couldn't hold in.

Rohit didn't react.

"Alright," Aliza said briskly, recovering her composure. "Rohit, you can go. Noor and I will finish this conversation privately."

He stood without another word and left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, whatever tentative friendship we'd had was gone.

After he left, Aliza stayed with me.

She didn't try to make excuses for anyone. She didn't tell me to let it go. She just sat there and let me feel it—let me be angry, and humiliated, and tired of all of it.

"You are not Alone," she said finally, her voice soft but firm.

I nodded. My throat was too tight to answer.

When I stepped out of that meeting room, the atmosphere was different.

People were still pretending to be busy, but I could feel the glances following me, the low voices that quieted when I passed.

I didn't care anymore.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe I cared too much.

I sat at my desk, staring at the blank screen, and thought about how quickly everything can shift—how someone who once felt like an ally can turn into an accusation.

That night, I walked home with the note folded in my bag, the words still echoing in my head.

YOU ARE A SHITTY PERSON.

Maybe they all believed it.

But I didn't.

I was many things—loud, impulsive, too trusting. But I wasn't this villain they needed me to be.

That they didn't know me.

That if they did, they would see how hard I tried. How much I cared.

But nobody was listening.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.