I feel his eyes on me, again.
It has been a habit since we started working together, even amid the crowded room where we heatedly debate this merger.
I keep the silence as my weapon. I lean forward with my elbows on the table, slightly biting my fingers, while I wait for some kind of truce between our people.
Openly staring now, he tilts his head, trying to assess me, to read me so he understands where my decision lies. But I give him nothing except silence.
He doesn’t deserve to know me anymore. He is entitled to nothing. All we once had was gone that day, years ago. So I just stare back. I know my team will come up with a proposal that matches both our interests, and I don’t plan on playing nice a second before that happens.

“Everybody out!” He elevates his voice above the rest and is met with confused eyes. “We are getting nowhere,” he explains, as the room vacates.
As I also motion to stand, he grabs my arm. “Scarlett, can you please stay? I would like to discuss something with you?”. I look where his hand touches my arm, and he takes it away quickly, while I sit back down.

I brace for what is coming and can no longer be avoided.
It’s been more than a week since he’s been back, more than a week of working long hours together in close quarters, more than a week of bumping into each other on the coffee machine, the printer, our manager’s office. More than a week, and I still refuse to acknowledge him or give him any additional words beyond the bare minimum for colleagues.
I assume he is done with my antics now.

The last person leaving shuts the door closed, and the air inside the room turns heavy. He paces the room by the door, trapping me inside. I follow him with my eyes, still refusing to put any words out. He looks like a caged animal, restless and anxious, and I tell myself I feel nothing, I don’t care, it is not my problem. He created this problem when he decided to come back. I should smile at the irony of it, but I somehow can’t.

He finally stops pacing and grabs his dark, sandy hair, looking me straight in the eyes, pleading as he says one word: “Scar…”
It’s only one word. It’s only my petit-nom, in his mouth, with that smooth tone of voice of his. The damned tone that transports me back to other times; happier times, intimate times, childish times. The damned tone that makes my body react, my skin raising in attention covered with goosebumps, my throat locking with the effort I am making not to react.
We look into each other’s eyes, in this impersonal white office room, and it’s like no time had passed at all. It’s like we hit pause and are just now resuming the anguish we left back then. I cannot accept this, I won’t.
So I stand, turn my back to him, and look out the window to the city in front of me.

He repeats, “Scar?”—same tone but with a question mark.
I need to speak, to stop being stubborn and address him. He is not going anywhere, and it seems that neither will I, since we are stuck with this project for the foreseeable future. So why is it so difficult to give in?
“Our team will solve it, they always do. We will close the deal within the timelines”. I break down but refuse to look at him.
The air changes again, and the caged animal is back, frustrated to infinity, his temper showing behind his polite cover of professionalism. Now I smile openly, looking towards the window. This is what knowing someone feels like; I indeed gave in, but I did not give him what he wanted, and I already knew he would get mad at it.
“Can you please look at me?” He says harshly, waiting for me to turn around. Which I do, as the adult I have to be.
“We need to talk about us. We need to address this issue. I can no longer work next to you with this,” he points from me to him back and forth “hanging over my head”. The words tremble out of his mouth in a rush.

I let the silence linger, just a bit more. The truth is, I don’t need a single thing, I don’t want to play nice and I don’t feel like accommodating him. The rest of my emotions I will debrief alone in the comfort of my house, later. So, I brace myself for the energy that will take me to cut through him.
I move towards him, wanting to be close to the door, ready to flee. I pause with my hand on the doorknob and look him in the eyes before saying: “There is no us. There’s nothing to be addressed, and we are professionals. So I would advise you to behave like it.”

I turn and open the door. I don’t look back.