Isabel sat at her desk, buried in the mountain of reports that had become her daily routine. It was her birthday, but it felt like just another day in the office—silent, empty, and forgotten. No one had wished her a happy birthday. In fact, no one had even looked her way. She wasn’t surprised; to the people here, she was just a tough boss, not a woman. She was the one they turned to for results, not for kindness or camaraderie. Behind her back, she could almost hear their whispers—cruel jokes, gossip that always stung a little more on days like this.
“Maybe what she needs is a boyfriend,” one colleague had said earlier, her voice carrying across the office.
“Yeah, right, poor guy who messes with her. Bitter and already old!”
Older… Isabel winced. She was only forty-three, still a few years older than some of the women who seemed obsessed with their looks, hopping from beautician to beautician in a desperate attempt to hide their age. But it hurt, especially today.
This day always made her feel fragile, and she tried to ignore it. Normally, she took the day off, curled up at home with a book and a glass of wine. But not this year. Today, there was no escape from the mocking comments, the awkward silences, and the giggles.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Isabel looked up, surprised.
“Happy birthday, Isabel!” a cheerful voice said.
It was Pablo, the new employee. He stood there smiling, holding a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Isabel froze for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. The entire office had gone quiet. They all watched, unsure of how to react. No one dared to congratulate her, knowing her cold reputation. But Pablo, being new, didn’t know the unspoken rules. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look at her as “the boss”—he simply saw her as a person. Isabel, for the first time in years, smiled.
“Thank you, Pablo,” she said softly, a warmth in her voice she hadn’t felt in a long time.
The staff exchanged glances, muttering under their breath. Some of them even placed bets on how long this “relationship” would last. Others wondered what Pablo wanted from her. But Isabel didn’t care. Pablo wasn’t like the others. He was down-to-earth, sincere, and fun. He didn’t flatter her or try to impress her; he spoke to her as though she were just another human being. And that day, for the first time in forever, Isabel felt like a woman—not a boss, not a cold, distant figure—but a real, flesh-and-blood woman.
After a few more dates, Isabel found herself opening up. She let him take her to restaurants, and they went on long walks. Then, he started staying at her house. The quiet nights were filled with dinner, laughter, and the promise of something new. Isabel had never believed that something like this could happen to her, but slowly, she allowed herself to enjoy it. She looked forward to rushing home, knowing someone was waiting for her.
But at work, the rumors didn’t stop. Whispers echoed through the halls, each more cutting than the last. “He wants to get promoted through the back door,” some said. “He’s just acting submissive to climb the ladder.”
But Pablo never asked for a promotion. He didn’t care about the politics or the power. He was just there for her—making her coffee, bringing her lunch, keeping her warm when she was cold. And that was when Isabel began to believe in him. Maybe, just maybe, this was real.
Then, one day, Pablo vanished.
He disappeared without a trace. His phone went unanswered. At work, he was gone. His apartment was empty. Isabel couldn’t understand. She reported him missing, but the police dismissed her concerns.
“Miss, he’s young. He’s probably out partying. He’ll be back soon.”
Isabel spent sleepless nights, tortured by the thought that he had just… left. Her colleagues resumed their cruel jokes, saying, “He got tired of her. Left her all alone.” And Isabel, usually so composed, felt her icy armor crack, revealing the emptiness she now carried inside. The cold shell she had so carefully built over the years dissolved into nothing. And all that was left was an aching void.
Two weeks later, she saw the news. A report flashed on the TV screen: a man had been found in a nearby province, involved in a car accident. He had amnesia and couldn’t remember his name or his past.
Isabel didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her keys and rushed to the hospital, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to know. What if it was him?
When she arrived, the doctor was standing by the patient’s bed, a young man with a blank, confused expression. The doctor looked at Isabel carefully.
“Are you sure you know him?” the doctor asked gently. “He has amnesia. He doesn’t remember anything.”
Isabel took a deep breath, her voice trembling. “I… I think it’s him,” she said. “Pablo. It has to be him.”
The doctor nodded, and Isabel walked closer to the bed, her heart racing. There, lying in front of her, was the man who had made her feel alive again. But this was a version of him that didn’t remember her, didn’t remember anything. Her eyes filled with tears as she reached out, her fingers brushing his hand.
“Pablo,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, he opened his eyes, looking at her with confusion, but then something flickered—a spark of recognition, a memory buried deep. And Isabel, with hope blooming in her chest, whispered, “I’m here, Pablo. I’ve always been here.”