Not Focus
Images of Arnav floated behind her eyelids, his tender smile that morning, his playful voice whispering to her belly, calling himself Dad with a boyish grin. That same man had once stood in a bookstore, holding this guide with a different future in mind.
“But he chose me,” she reminded herself in a whisper. “He is here… with me. That’s what matters.”
The thought soothed her, but an echo lingered a gentle, unspoken question: But how much space did Clarissa once occupy in his heart? Am I truly his everything now?
Arnav pushed open the door to his office at the agency, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of coffee greeting him. In his hands were several sheets of documents, along with a folder filled with reports from various divisions. Files that required his careful review and signature before any final approval could be given. After the earlier meeting, he had little desire for conversation. He simply moved toward his desk in measured silence, placing his belongings neatly atop the smooth surface. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if each gesture carried its own weight.
He was careful not to disturb the meticulous arrangement of papers and reports already waiting for him. Clearly, his assistant had taken the time to organize everything, aligning the documents in precise stacks to streamline his workload. It was a small gesture, perhaps, but one that carried quiet significance.
Arnav paused for a moment, noticing the neatness and order on his desk. He considered that he ought to acknowledge it later. This kind of thoughtfulness, however small, deserved recognition. Efficiency in an environment like this often thrived on the subtle, invisible efforts of those who worked behind the scenes.
Arnav exhaled slowly, letting the cool draft from the air conditioner sweep across his face. The office was always quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that was almost heavy. Only the soft ticking of the wall clock and the faint rustle of papers under his fingers broke the stillness. He let his gaze settle on the stacks of files on his desk. Blue, green, and beige folders arranged neatly, yet staring back at him like silent demands.
Most of the urgent matters had already been dealt with, yet the remainder still loomed before him. Reports waiting for his signature, data awaiting careful review, and questions from the team that needed immediate responses. His perfectionist streak never allowed him to simply sign without scrutiny; every figure, every line of text had to be exact. And yet, even here, his mind was not entirely in this room.
A part of him was still at home.
He could see Raellyn’s face as vividly as if she were in front of him—her bright smile over breakfast, the spark in her eyes when they teased each other about the upcoming doctor’s appointment. The warmth in his chest was almost tangible at the thought of her. The truth was, money never worried him. He had long prepared for hospital bills, for the cost of prenatal care, for every possible contingency.
No, his unease was never about finances. It was about the things he could not control. Was Raellyn truly happy? Did she feel loved, wholly and without doubt? Would the mornings of nausea and restless sleep make her feel alone, even with him by her side?
He tightened his grip on the pen in his hand, his eyes scanning the numbers on the report without really seeing them.
Since when did I become like this? he wondered silently. Since when did this office feel so empty without her laughter echoing in the corners of my mind?
The soft leather chair, the neatly stacked folders, the wide glass windows offering a perfect view of the city’s blue sky, all of it felt cold, distant. Nothing like the warmth of their home, where every corner now carried a trace of her presence. Leaning back, Arnav let his head rest against the chair, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before releasing a deep breath.
“Focus, Arnav,” he muttered to himself. His voice was low, barely audible against the hum of the air conditioner.
He bent forward again, opening the first folder, letting his eyes sweep over the budget figures that required his approval. Yet every number seemed to conjure Raellyn’s image. Her laughter, the honesty in her gaze, the way she had become the center of his world without him even realizing it. And in that silent office, surrounded by stacks of work demanding his perfection, Arnav understood a simple truth: No matter how high his position, no matter how heavy the responsibility on his shoulders, his heart only wanted to return home. Back to Raellyn, the gravity that kept him alive, the quiet warmth that had become his only true refuge.
“Excuse me, Sir Arnav.”
The voice from outside the office broke through his concentration, accompanied by a polite knock. Arnav’s brow furrowed almost instinctively. Interruptions like this were rarely trivial—either there was an urgent matter waiting, a report requiring his signature, or another financial statement from the company’s ever-demanding operations.
He exhaled softly, letting the weight of inevitability sink in. For a brief moment, he kept his gaze on the closed wooden door, its polished surface reflecting the pale light from the ceiling lamp. The office was his domain, his fortress of control and yet, at times like this, it also felt like a cage that never let him breathe freely.
“Come in,” he said at last, his voice measured, calm, but carrying the unspoken authority that always commanded attention.
His male assistant stepped into the office, carrying a neat stack of files. The young man didn’t waste words. He had long learned the working rhythm of his superior. Without preamble, he approached the wide mahogany desk and laid the documents down, flipping them open to the section that demanded immediate attention.
“Sir,” he began, his tone respectful but firm, “the reports you signed earlier still require further review. I believe the finance team needs to make corrections. It seems… you didn’t thoroughly check the financial statistics before authorizing them.”