Maybe She Never Existed

 

Tara and I worked in the same office.
Different departments. Same floor.

We mostly met near the coffee machine or during lunch breaks when both of us wanted to avoid people.

She worked in Marketing.
I worked in Operations.

This meant she attended meetings with expressions.
I attended meetings with spreadsheets.

For nearly two years, our friendship survived entirely on coffee, sarcasm, and office gossip.

Then one Tuesday morning, I showed her an email.

“Read this,” I said.

She took my phone casually.
Then stopped stirring her coffee.

The mail was short.

From: unknown.sender19@protonmail.com
To: varun.p@brightline.com

If you talk to other women here, I will kill you.

Tara looked at me.
Then at the screen again.

“Well,” she said softly, “that feels slightly unhealthy.”

“I received it ten minutes ago.”

“On your office mail?”

“Yes.”

She sat down slowly.
The cafeteria around us remained perfectly ordinary.
Coffee machines hissed.
Somebody laughed too loudly near the billing counter.
Two interns argued about PowerPoint slides as if civilization depended on them.

“This is either very funny,” Tara said, “or very serious.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She read the mail once more.

“Female?”

“Feels like it.”

“That itself sounds dangerous.”

I smiled despite myself.

That was the thing about Tara.
Even her concern arrived gently.

By afternoon, another mail came.

You smiled at her today. Careful.

Tara immediately opened a notebook.

“You own a detective notebook?” I asked.

“I own several disappointing things.”

“Why are you excited?”

“Because my life finally has plot.”

She wrote down the time.
11:13 a.m.

“Who did you smile at?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know.”

“I smile professionally.”

“God, that sounds tiring.”

We reconstructed my morning.

Reception.
Printer.
Lift.
HR.

Finally she pointed her pen at me.

“Meera from HR.”

“Oh.”

“You smiled at her near the printer.”

“You remember this?”

“I notice things.”

She said it lightly.
But something about the sentence remained.

Over the next week, the mails continued.

Don’t make her jealous.

You touched her hand.

Stop looking at other women.

Some arrived late at night.
Some arrived minutes after ordinary office conversations.

One morning I helped a woman from Admin carry files.
Before I reached my desk, another mail waited for me.

That was the first time the whole thing stopped feeling amusing.

“She’s watching you closely,” Tara said.

We sat near the window in the cafeteria.
Rain drifted softly outside.

“How do you know it’s a she?” I asked.

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep saying she?”

Tara looked thoughtful.

“I suppose because jealousy sounds feminine when written politely.”

“That may be the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever spoken.”

She laughed.

It became our routine after that.

Whenever a mail arrived, I forwarded it to Tara.
Sometimes she called immediately.
Sometimes she simply replied:

Interesting.

As if we were discussing literature.
Not threats.

We began suspecting women in the office.

Nisha from Design because she laughed too easily.
Pooja from Finance because she somehow knew everyone’s business.
The intern because he moved quietly.

“Never trust quiet people,” Tara declared.

“You’re quiet.”

“That’s elegance. Completely different category.”

There was comfort in these conversations.
A strange kind.

The mails disturbed me.
But the investigation drew us together.

Lunch became longer.
Coffee breaks became necessary.
Sometimes we remained after office hours simply discussing possibilities.

Tara took the matter seriously.
Perhaps more seriously than I did.

She began studying the language itself.

“She’s emotionally possessive,” she said one evening.

We sat near the vending machine because the cafeteria had closed.

“How can you tell?”

“She doesn’t react to every woman. Only certain interactions upset her.”

“That sounds intelligent.”

“I watch crime shows.”

A strand of hair kept falling across her forehead.
She kept pushing it away impatiently.

Without realizing it, I had begun watching her more than the people we suspected.

The way she leaned forward while thinking.
The way she held coffee cups with both hands.
The way she smiled before saying something sarcastic.

Once she caught me staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You looked emotional for a second.”

“I’m recovering now.”

“Good.”

The office slowly learned about the mails.
Office secrets travel faster than official circulars.

People smiled oddly around me.

One man from Accounts asked if I required security escort to the washroom.

Tara nearly fell off her chair laughing.

“Your mysterious admirer is improving your popularity,” she said.

“I was happier when nobody noticed me.”

“No one truly prefers hiding in a cage.”

That sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.

Eventually Tara convinced me to speak to Neeraj from IT.

Neeraj lived permanently inside the server room.
He looked disappointed whenever forced into sunlight.

The room smelled cold.
Machines blinked silently around us.

Neeraj checked the mails carefully.
Then adjusted his glasses.

“These are coming from inside the office.”

I stared at him.

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty much.”

“Can you identify who?”

“Not immediately. Whoever’s sending them knows enough to hide properly.”

“Excellent,” I muttered.

Tara asked most of the questions after that.

I mostly watched her.

Not intentionally.
It simply kept happening.

Sometimes she brought coffee to my desk.
Always one sugar.
Correct amount.

“You complain loudly every morning,” she explained once.

“Oh.”

“Your suffering has educational value.”

Monday became Tuesday.
Tuesday looked exactly like Monday.

The mails continued.

You looked happy with her today.

She is not right for you.

Don’t ignore me.

One night around midnight another mail arrived.

I saw you looking at her.
Don’t.

This one felt different.
Less threatening.
More personal.

I forwarded it to Tara immediately.

She called within seconds.

“You awake?” she asked.

“You did call me.”

“Fair point.”

Rain tapped softly against her window somewhere.

“She sounds emotional tonight,” Tara said quietly.

“She?”

“You’re right. Dangerous assumption.”

I smiled in the dark.

Neither of us spoke for a while after that.

But the silence felt companionable.
Like a room already inhabited.

The next morning Tara placed coffee on my desk without asking.

One sugar.
Correct amount.

“You’re becoming predictable,” she said.

“I thought people liked predictable.”

“Only in bank accounts.”

Then Thursday arrived.
Rainy.
Grey.
The kind of afternoon where office lights look permanent.

Neeraj called me quietly to his desk.

Something in his face made my stomach tighten.

“I checked the logs again,” he said.

“And?”

He hesitated.

“Every mail traces back to the same account.”

I waited.

“Tara’s.”

For a moment I genuinely thought he was joking.

“That’s impossible.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“She’s the one helping me.”

“Maybe someone used her system. Maybe she left it open. I’m just telling you what the records show.”

I walked out before he finished.

The corridor looked unfamiliar suddenly.
Too bright.
Too sharp.

Tara sat near the window, stapling papers.

Ordinary.
Calm.
Completely herself.

She looked up and smiled.

That smile made things worse somehow.

I asked her for coffee.

She studied my face carefully.
Then nodded.

We sat in the corner of the cafeteria.
Near the dead plant nobody watered.

Rain slipped slowly down the glass behind her.

“I asked Neeraj to check again,” I said.

“Okay.”

“He traced the mails.”

The spoon stopped moving in her hand.

Not dramatically.
Just enough.

“To you,” I finished.

The cafeteria noise continued around us.
Plates.
Chairs.
Somebody laughing loudly near the entrance.

Tara looked down at her coffee.

“I started it as a joke,” she said quietly.

I said nothing.

“The first mail.”

She looked embarrassed now.
Not frightened.
Embarrassed.

“You were talking to Nisha that morning.”

“Nisha from Design?”

“She touched your arm while laughing.”

I stared at her.

“That’s why this happened?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds really bad”

“You sent anonymous death threats.”

“Tiny death threats.”

Unfortunately, I laughed.

That irritated me.

“I hate that this is funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It’s deeply disturbing.”

“A little disturbing.”

Rainwater gathered slowly at the edge of the window.

“I thought you’d ignore the first mail,” she admitted.
“But instead you came straight to me.”

“And then?”

“And then you kept coming back.”

That sentence settled quietly between us.

No drama.
No revelation music.

Just truth.

“You looked for me every morning,” she said softly.
“You texted me before sleeping. You called during lunch breaks. Suddenly I mattered more than meetings and spreadsheets.”

She smiled faintly.

“It became difficult to stop.”

I wanted to be angry.
Unfortunately, I was in love with her.

The realization arrived with irritating clarity.

“You could have simply told me,” I said.

“You could have noticed me.”

That one hurt slightly.
Because it was true.

I looked at her properly then.

The tired eyes.
The nervous fingers around the coffee cup.
The ridiculous honesty.

No villain.
No mastermind.

Just Tara.

“At times,” she said softly, “when you don’t see my feelings, I make you see them.”

I covered my face briefly.

“Oh God.”

She laughed.
Warm.
Relieved.

“I know.”

“You understand this is insane?”

“Somewhat.”

“You threatened murder.”

“You survived.”

“That is not the point.”

“Fair.”

We sat there smiling into our coffee like two people who had accidentally wandered into a love story while investigating a crime.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

Water still clung to the pavements.
Streetlights trembled quietly inside it.

Tara walked beside me without speaking.
Then her hand slipped into mine.
Natural.
Unhurried.
Like something that had already happened long ago.

At the crossing, a woman passed us, holding a red umbrella.

Tara glanced at her.
Then at me.

“Careful,” she said softly.

I laughed for a very long time after that.

***