That Time I Fell (Flat) for a Guy at Work

Let me set the scene. Picture a buzzing office in London, keyboards clacking, people pretending to be on calls while secretly watching cat videos—standard fare. Now drop in one besotted woman (hi, that’s me) and one slightly scruffy, wildly intelligent, inexplicably magnetic man.

Now, he wasn’t conventionally hot. Not the type you'd swipe right on based on cheekbones alone. But there was something about him—this brooding brainiac charm, like if Mr. Darcy were an accountant. He had a brain that could’ve cracked codes for MI6, and every time he spoke in meetings, I’d nod like I understood while actually just marvelling at how his lips moved when he said “synergy.”

One tiny detail, though—he had a long-term girlfriend. Six years deep. Practically married without the paperwork. But here’s the kicker: he never spoke about her. Nothing. Nada. Not even a casual “my girlfriend likes olives.” Suspiciously vague, like she was a ghost. Or a very clever decoy. Naturally, my brain—being the imaginative beast it is—started crafting romantic narratives where maybe they were on a break (thanks, Ross), or perhaps she was just a front for his actual love: me.

Things simmered under the surface. You know, the kind of chemistry that makes you reapply lipstick in the loo before bumping into him at the printer. And then came The Holiday Return. I came back to the office post-holiday looking like I’d just been plucked from a Love Island casting call. Sun-kissed skin, new dress, hair with that salty beach wave bounce. Felt good. No, great.

And boom—ran into him in the corridor. It was like a romcom moment, minus the background music. He looked at me, and I swear, time slowed. I mumbled something unintelligible and scuttled off. I was basically a walking Bridget Jones blooper reel.

But fate had plans.

One night, our company threw a networking event—code for “let’s all drink too much on the company card.” He was there. I was there. Wine was flowing, laughter echoing. The tension? Palpable. At one point someone, clearly picking up on the vibes (because it was hotter than a broken aircon in August), asked if something was going on between us.

He looked at me, smirked, and said, “Ask Melanie.”

EXCUSE ME, SIR? Did you just throw the ball into my court?

Reader, I melted into a puddle of cheap sauvignon blanc and delusion.

Fast forward: end of the night. We’re on the same train home, heading south—me to Clapham, him to Croydon. He was absolutely, gloriously smashed. Chatting nonsense, swaying slightly, adorable in that tragic, end-of-night way. I, emboldened by alcohol and months of pent-up pining, leaned in for a cheeky kiss. I know, I know—shameless. But when in vino…

He pulled away.

Put his head in his hands.

And fell asleep.

Not metaphorically. Literally passed out mid-flirt. Honestly, the drama. I got off at the next stop, heart slightly bruised, dignity somewhere near Wimbledon.

Next day at work? Nothing. Zilch. He acted like we’d had a chat about the weather and parted ways like strangers. Oh, and apparently he’d woken up in BRIGHTON. Yep. Man took the train well past Croydon and had to shell out £150 for a taxi home. Ouch.

Was it all in my head? Did he fancy me and get cold feet? Or was I just the office girl with a glittery crush and an overactive imagination?

Guess we’ll never know.

But hey—crazy times, right?

Months passed. The crush lingered like a bad song stuck in your head. Then came the cyberstalking moment (don’t judge, we’ve all been there). I found his wedding photos online. Not tucked away in a private Facebook album. Oh no. Full-blown marketing content for a wedding photographer's website. He’d basically licensed his love life to the internet.

Reader, I was gutted.

Stay tuned for the next instalment of my questionable love life, you’ll want popcorn.