Maja writes: he’s behind you…

Jealousy.

There. I wrote it. It looks pathetic in ink.

It wasn’t even that she was impressive – she was, of course – it was the way Julian seemed to grow into someone else around her. Someone more articulate, more intentional, someone who managed to keep his shirt tucked in for a full twenty minutes. A version of him I didn’t realise I minded missing until it appeared.

At one point she laughed – really laughed – at something he said. Not out of politeness. Not the “yes, English humour is peculiar” diplomatic laugh. A proper laugh. He lit up like a festival lantern. And I hated it. And I hated myself for hating it. Because none of this is… anything. It’s just Julian being Julian. And me being… what? More attached than I realised? More fragile than I admit? After she left, the whole office exhaled.

Julian floated. Actually floated. Muttering things like: “She understood my joke about footnotes,” and “I think she admired our organisational ecosystem,” which is the most delusional sentence I’ve ever heard in this building, and that includes Paul’s claim that he can “feel fonts emotionally.”

I pretended to be busy. I couldn’t look at him. Not while he was glowing like that. I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this knotted, restless feeling in my chest. But I know one thing. If Shaila returns, I am absolutely sitting in on every meeting. Not because of Julian. Absolutely not. Just… cultural diplomacy. Professional curiosity. Normal reasons.

God, I’m a mess.