The Girl On The Sixth Floor

I’m losing my mind for her.

Photo by Atikh Bana on Unsplash

This girl in my office — she is beautiful, attractive and I am fascinated with her even though I don’t even know her name. I sit on the ninth floor, she on the sixth. Every morning, I take the lift to the sixth floor, get out, pass via the pantry, where she sits, have one look at her, and then walk the remaining three flights of stairs to the ninth floor. This has been my routine for the past four weeks since I joined this office, and I have lost quite a few kilos.

I don’t know; I usually am a practical person, doing things with an end in mind. I am not impulsive, or emotional, or sentimental. But doing this, the sixth-floor morning ritual, even if entirely against that motto, somehow has become an exception.

Every night I resolve not to repeat this folly, get some sense, and lose this bad habit. Still, every morning, I forget this rationality and the last night’s resolve, skip the ninth-floor button, make the detour to the sixth floor, and then take a walk to have a look at her.

Sneaking around on that floor, I never go near to her, lest she takes me for a stalker.

I have a friend who sits on the same floor, lucky man. So, I go to his desk, say my good mornings, exchange mundane pleasantries while keeping one eye on where she sits. Whenever I see…