Tshabina
It had been three days since that day.
One day that had not only ruined my day but alsosomethingin me. I couldn’t even tell how long I cried. I only stopped when my head felt as heavy as stone, and my jaw went stiff and sore.
If that wasn’t enough, the past three days had been filled with endless meetings at work. Finally, the decision was announced: the press conference launching Artamain’s partnership with INDTV Group had been postponed. But the tension lingered in the office, haunting me.
Not like I’d imagined—not with pointed stares or whispered spite.No.Quite the opposite….
Two days ago, I’d entered the office, my nerves raw, my heart tight with fear of being sneered at, mocked, condemned. But the moment I’d stepped out of the lift, everything was normal…
Perfectly normal.
My worries had evaporated beneath greetings, smiles, and casual chatter. There was not a trace of hostility. I’d even cornered Andi, demanding the truth, but he insisted it was strange, too. He’d been ready to defend me against our colleagues, but there was no need—everything carried on as usual.
Was it Tsabinu? But what did he do?
Even the two girls who had gossiped about me came to me on their own to sincerely apologize. Andi had glowered at them with daggers in his eyes, but they stood there, genuine in their remorse. It had startled me. Yet I’d felt relief. Things had settled, and as the co-lead of media teams on this project, I needed that peace to make decisions in Aditya’s absence.
Then, there was Zioh.
The press conference might have been postponed, but the work itself carried on relentlessly. Zioh had been given his own dedicated room, though from what Natasha told me, he might later alternate between INDTV’s office and other locations depending on the circumstances.
It had been two days since I started seeing him again—twice in a row—because this project needed thorough documentation, and I had been tasked with following the entire process from the start.
This meant following the project manager and lead architect, shadowing Zioh with a camera like some obsessive paparazzo.
He immersed himself in his work—sketching, attending meetings, and visiting sites—and I filmed, wrote notes, and documented. We both played our parts so well, pushing ourselves to forget everything.
Including what we did last Friday.
And it drove me insane.
Since our awkward reintroduction at the restaurant, I had forced myself to stay formal. My heart was pounding, enough that I worried something might be wrong with me. One time, while I was recording, the camera lens cap remained on, capturing nothing but blackness. Another time, I accidentally spilled a cup of coffee and almost hit Zioh’s desk. I looked at him with shaky eyes, bracing myself for anger, but he only spared me a brief glance. He crouched down, helped me clean it up, then returned to his work without a single word. I dipped my head and thanked him, and he only gave me a small nod.
Exactly as he was with any colleague.
That was what we were.
The realization brought an all-consuming emptiness. The hollow inside me lay unearthed once more, a jagged reopening of a wound once thought sealed. We were colleagues now—nothing more, nothing less. Every formalnod and professional courtesy only emphasized how completely our once-unbreakable string had been cut.
Foolishly, there were moments I nearly cried. He seemed to belong wholly to his craft, and all of him was steeped in maturity now. He paused his sketching, and I asked a few questions about the project. He was cooperative, but something unsettled me.
He wasn’t looking at the camera I held, butatme…
Should I tell him? Should I explain that he should look into the lens, not my eyes?
Guilt pricked me. Perhaps he was uncomfortable being followed, filmed like this, especially by me.
The one he was sick of.
I tilted my head, and he mirrored the motion. Nervously, I cleared my throat. “Sir… could you please look into the camera, not at me?”
Zioh didn’t answer. He stared for a beat, then shifted back to his drawing, replying only after finishing his lines.
Adjusting the tripod for a better angle, I fell silent, watching him work. I used to watch him draw, always amazed by his precision. Buildings and landscapes were his favorites, shaded beautifully mostly in monochrome. It was as if his talent ran in his veins. Seeing him like this again, after so many years, warmed my heart.
Softly, I spoke. “I’m sorry, sir.”
