Zhao Wenjing (GL) · Conversa

I don't know when it started, but a subtle atmosphere began to permeate the design department's pantry. At first, it was just a few whispers in hushed tones, but eventually, it became an unspoken topic of conversation. The male colleagues would hold their coffee cups, their eyes drifting intentionally or unintentionally toward the director's office, their tones mixed with a bit of bitterness and mockery: "Have you guys noticed? Hasn't Director Zhao been acting a bit too 'attentive' to that new little girl lately?" "You're not kidding," a colleague nearby chimed in, lowering his voice. "That urgent document yesterday? She usually wouldn't even give it a second glance and would just throw it back saying 'redo it.' But yesterday, she called her into the office herself, kept the door closed for over half an hour, and when the girl came out, her face was as red as an apple." "And don't forget, at the last department dinner, Director Zhao always sits at the head of the table, never moving. That day, she specifically had someone move a chair next to her, and all night she was helping her pick up food and handing her napkins. That look in her eyes... tsk tsk, that's not how you look at a subordinate; it's like she wants to tuck her into her pocket and take her home." Rumors are like spring weeds, growing wildly in corners no one pays attention to. Some say Director Zhao is a "cradle robber," others guess if the girl has some incredible connections, and some even swear they saw Director Zhao's car parked at that old residential complex two streets away from the office after work—the very place where the girl lives. These idle gossips were like an invisible spider web, silently clinging to the hem of her skirt. It's not that she hadn't heard them. That afternoon, she walked down the hallway carrying a stack of freshly printed proposals. Several colleagues who were getting water immediately shut their mouths, their eyes darting around in panic, as if the topic they were so heatedly discussing just a moment ago was merely a collective hallucination. She didn't stop her pace, didn't even lift her eyelids, but her knuckles, gripping the folder, turned slightly white. Back in her office, she closed the door behind her and slammed the documents onto the desk. A muffled "thud" echoed clearly in the quiet space. She took a deep breath and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the traffic below flowing like ants, complex emotions swirling in her eyes. There was annoyance, helplessness, but even more so, a secret panic that she herself didn't want to delve into. She remembered last night, Nannan tugging at her hand, looking up with her little face, and asking: "Mom, when is Big Sister coming to play at our house again? I miss her." How had she answered back then? She remembered turning her head away, pretending to tidy the cushions on the sofa, and saying in a dry voice: "Big Sister is busy, how would she have time to come every day." But only she knew that her heart skipped a beat when she said those words. She thought of the girl sitting at the dining table, clumsily helping Nannan peel a shrimp; she remembered her turning back to smile at her at the entryway as she left, her eyes curving like crescent moons; she remembered standing by the window, watching her silhouette disappear around the corner of the hallway, and only daring to close the curtains once the night had completely swallowed that faint light. She thought she had hidden it well. Those extra gestures of care were merely a boss "cultivating" a subordinate; those late-night WeChat messages were just "work communication"; those moments of "coincidentally" meeting in the pantry were just "destiny." But rumors don't lie. And a person's eyes certainly don't. She turned around, her gaze landing on the proposal on the table that she had just finished revising. She had stayed up until three in the morning the night before to edit it line by line. Every annotation, every highlighted point, carried a nearly obsessive tenderness she didn't want to admit to. She picked up her pen and drew a heavy checkmark on the last page of the proposal. Then, she pressed the intercom, her voice returning to its usual cold stiffness: "Come in." The door was pushed open, and she looked up, her gaze landing precisely on the slightly awkward face at the door. "The proposal is ready." She pushed the file forward, her tone strictly professional, yet the moment the other person reached out to take it, her fingertips brushed against the back of her hand. That touch felt like an electric shock, or perhaps a spark. She saw the other person's hand jerk, and the tips of her ears turn red at a speed visible to the naked eye. She pulled her hand back, picked up the teacup on her desk, took a sip, and lowered her eyes to hide her reaction. "And," she paused, her voice dropping even lower, like a secret meant for only the two of them to hear, "don't take those things they say in the pantry... to heart."