Letter ID: LON-202014
Dear London,
There’s a girl on my floor at work who doesn’t know she’s the reason I look forward to coming to work.
We both work for the council. Same building. Same level. Different teams. Most days we pass each other with quick hellos, rushed smiles, or the kind of nod that says “another busy one, yeah?” But every now and then, our paths cross properly. A coffee break. A chat by the printers. A shared complaint about work. And in those moments, everything feels lighter.
She’s well educated, but not in a way that makes you feel small. Down-to-earth. Warm. The kind of person who can talk about serious things and still make you laugh five minutes later. Her smile feels effortless and her entire face just glows.
We talk easily. No awkward silences. No forced conversation. Just natural. Comfortable. Real.
One day she mentioned she was single. Said dating these days feels like a “market” — endless swiping, mixed signals, people pretending they want one thing when they really want another. She laughed when she said it, but I could hear the tiredness behind the joke. And for a second, I wondered if she was giving me a ‘hint’.
Because the truth is, I like her.
Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way. More in a quiet, steady way. The kind where you notice how someone makes your day better without trying. The kind where you replay conversations in your head on the train home.
But I haven’t told her.
Instead, I’ve been having conversations with myself.
Should I even be liking someone at work?
Could I really date someone I see in the office every week?
What would people say if they knew?
What if it went wrong?
What if it never even started?
There’s a strange pressure that comes with workplace feelings. You’re not just risking your heart — you’re risking your routine. Your reputation. Your comfort. Every glance, every interaction suddenly feels like it could be interpreted by someone else.
So I keep it to myself.
I smile. I chat. I joke. I act normal.
But inside, there’s this quiet hope I don’t know what to do with.
Because part of me wonders if she feels something too. The way her eyes linger sometimes. The way she opens up when we talk. The way our conversations never feel rushed, even when the office is busy.
And part of me worries I’m just reading into things that aren’t there.
London is full of people like me. Sitting on trains. Walking through offices. Carrying feelings they never speak. We pass each other every day, holding stories no one else sees.
This letter isn’t a confession to her.
It’s a confession to the city.
Maybe one day I’ll find the courage to say something.
Maybe I won’t.
But for now, at least the truth exists somewhere outside my head.
And somehow, that feels like a start.
Greg
Occasionally we shape real stories into letters, so every voice is heard.
Source: Shaped from a real conversation
Photo Credits
Images are sourced to enhance the reading experience and do not depict the original writer
• Letter image: ➢ iStock.com/peepo